


wet hot olympian summer

by irishmizzy



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, M/M, RPF, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishmizzy/pseuds/irishmizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's "I hope we never part," now get it right or pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wet hot olympian summer

**Author's Note:**

> Completely untrue, no disrespect, please stop googling yourself, etc. Written for a [wintergameskink prompt](http://wintergameskink.livejournal.com/4328.html?thread=4834536#t4834536) on LJ.

**day one**

Johnny's balancing with one foot on a bedpost and the other on a desk, trying to make the WELCOME TO EDGE 4 banner hang evenly, when he hears the cabin door swing open and shut.

There's footsteps, three, and then they stop. Johnny jabs the tack into the wall and hopes for the best. He hops onto the floor and spins around and yup, there's Evan, peering into Johnny's trunk. Johnny clears his throat because hello, this isn't Evan's cabin, what the hell is he doing in here and if he gets any of his stupid fake tan -- and who tans _before_ camp starts? Seriously -- on any of Johnny's clothes Johnny will kill him and bury the body so deep in the woods that campers won't find it for another forty years.

"Expecting it to get cold this summer?" is all Evan says, squinting at the fur coat folded neatly among Johnny's belongings.

"You never know." Johnny crosses the room and shuts the trunk. That refocuses Evan's attention on him and not his clothes.

"I thought global warming meant it was supposed to be hot all the time," he says. Johnny stares at him and bites the inside of his cheek hard so he doesn't call Evan a fuckwit before camp officially starts. Well, before camp officially starts _today_. Johnny's pretty sure he called Evan a fuckwit at least fifteen times during counselor orientation last week. But that wasn't his fault; that's what happens when you assign him and Evan to the two 12-13 boys' cabins and expect them to cooperate. It's just science.

"Did you come here to check out my wardrobe or was there another reason?" he asks eventually.

Evan blinks. "Oh, yeah. Uh, campers in five so we have to get to the front. Mr. H's orders. Even though it's probably more like campers in two now."

Just then there's a loud whistle blast, one two three. They both wince.

"Sounds like they're already here," Johnny says. Evan nods and they both

"Uh, your sign's still a little crooked, bro," Evan says, just as they're leaving.

Johnny shoves him into the door frame. "Shut the fuck up, my sign is perfect and you know it."

Evan scoffs and then takes off, limbs going in all directions as he runs towards the main entrance. Johnny spares a glance over his shoulder -- yeah, the sign is fucking straight as an arrow, Lysacek can suck it -- and then takes off running. He refuses to get fired before camp even starts.

**

There's already a bit of a line forming by the time Johnny and Evan make it to the field house. They slide breathlessly into their seats at the boys' registration table, avoiding the glares Mr. H is shooting him over his clipboard.

"Nice timing," Tanith says out of the side of her mouth. Johnny throws his pen at her.

"I don't even see anybody yet," he says, gesturing to the mostly empty room. He leans over to read her check-in sheet. No girls have signed in either, at least not as far as he can see. Sasha's list looks equally blank. So whatever, it's not like they missed anything.

"Yeah, we're totally fine," Evan says, arranging his papers so everything's in orderly stacks, making sure the pens are all perpendicular to the forms. Tanith rolls her eyes at them.

"Yeah, and that's why Mr. H was ready to send out a search party for you two."

"Whatever," Johnny says, at the same time as Evan scoffs in annoyance.

Of course, that's when Mr. H decides to walk over, all, "So nice of you to join us."

"Sorry about that," Evan says, immediately changing his tune. "I was just helping Johnny hang his cabin's welcome banner."

Mr. H smiles at Evan, like he appreciates the effort, but when he turns to Johnny it's a different thing. "Saving everything til the last minute, were we?"

"Nope, just making sure it was perfect."

It feels like a stand-off, the two of them smiling fakely at each other, and Johnny didn't expect to deal with it this early in the summer. God knows why, though, because sometimes (most of the time) he thinks Mr. H has it out for him. Probably as like, retribution for all those years when Johnny was a mildly out-of-control camper. Or maybe because of how he caught Johnny and Stéphane in the rec shed during counselor orientation last week. He's been kind of extra twitchy ever since then.

(Now that Johnny thinks of it, that's probably why Stéphane's on airport shuttle duty and Johnny's stuck here manning check-in with Captain Kiss-Ass. Huh. It's all starting to make sense.)

Whatever. The point is, Mr. H kind of hates him for no reason. Or for a lot of reasons. Johnny tries not to dwell, because he loves camp. He's been coming forever, every summer without fail since he was twelve, as a camper and then a CIT and now as a real counselor, rising through the ranks with the same people -- Evan and Tanith and pretty much everyone -- which means it's the longest relationship he's had. And sure, it's not like camp is a _person_, but whatever. In Johnny's mind it still counts.

"Hey! Campers!" Sasha says, pointing and effectively shifting everyone's attention to the doors. Johnny can hear the familiar rumble of tires on gravel and car doors slamming. Mr. H forgets everything and heads for the doors so he can greet the families.

"Well. This'll be a fun summer," Tanith says.

"Hell yeah," Evan says, without irony. When he catches the look Johnny's shooting at him, he smiles. "What? It's camp. It's _always_ awesome."

**

Registration is a drag.

Not totally, because seeing all the kids' faces is a trip. Half of them are so psyched, doing that thing where they wave goodbye and run off to check out their cabins without so much as a second glance at their parents, who always end up looking vaguely misty-eyed and lost once little Connor or Sydney is out of sight. And the other half, well. The other half of the campers are flat-out terrified.

So yeah, the kids are the fun part. But sitting on a crappy metal folding chair, making sure everyone signs by the X and handing out cabin assignments and reassuring parents that even though it looks like they're in the middle of the boonies yes, the phones totally work and yes, there is an infirmary if something horrible happens and no, no one's died here, at least not since Johnny started coming. It's the same spiel over and over again and it grates.

"No, no one's died. Yet," Johnny says cheerfully to some extra neurotic parents. Evan kicks him under the table.

"He's kidding," Evan says. "Obviously no one's died. Camp Lutziyatah makes sure all its staff members are certified in first aid, and there's an entire health center right here on-site, just for campers."

Johnny rolls his eyes. Trust Evan to stick to the party line.

"Careful, Lysacek," he says once the parents leave looking sufficiently reassured. "You almost put some feeling into that speech."

"Shut up." He kicks Johnny again, and then redirects his attention to the next camper in line. "Hey, I'm Evan, welcome to Camp Lutz!"

Johnny takes a second to regroup, straightening his stacks of papers and smoothing the wrinkles out of his shirt. And then he looks up and smiles brightly.

"Hi, I'm Johnny." He points at his name tag and hopes the kid only _looks_ like he's going to burst into tears. "Welcome to camp."

**

The insane crush of campers has pretty much died down by late afternoon. Evan's trying to balance one of his pens on the bridge of his nose. Sasha's explaining to a new family that "cell phones are not allowed under any circumstances" means there are no circumstances under which cell phones are allowed while Tanith tries to look busy so she doesn't have to jump in. Johnny's just bored.

Someone's hands close over Johnny's eyes.

"Guess who," Stéphane singsongs.

"That doesn't really work if you're the only one here with that accent, dumbass." Johnny grasps Stéphane's wrists and pulls his hands down, tilting his head back so he's looking at him upside down. Stéphane shakes his head.

"Such language in front of the impressionable children." He clucks his tongue and taps Johnny's chin with one finger. And then he breaks into a smile. He's crap at keeping a straight face. Johnny turns around, sick of craning his neck.

"How was the airport?" he asks, tucking his legs up so he's perched on the chair.

"Crowded. Loud." Stéphane shrugs. "An airport." He smiles. "I won bingo on the trip back, though!"

"He kicked all our butts," Yu-Na says, sitting on the table between Johnny and Evan. "It was impressive."

"It was nothing," Stéphane says, shaking his head. He looks proud, though, like beating a bunch of twelve year-olds at car bingo is a real accomplishment. It kind of is, Johnny guesses.

"Oh, good, you're back," Mrs. H says, materializing behind Stéphane. "How was the trip? Everything go okay?"

Stéphane and Yu-Na nod and she smiles.

"Good. No campers left behind, five years running!" She gives a little fist pump and they all laugh. Johnny likes Mrs. H. She's way cooler than Mr. H ("No relation, just coincidence," she always makes a point in saying, like being related to Mr. H is the worst thing she could possibly imagine), not that that's a high standard or anything.

"Alright," she says. "You guys should probably go check on your cabins. Make sure no bunk brawls have broken out yet. I'll check in any stragglers."

"Are you sure?" Evan asks, but Johnny doesn't even wait to hear her answer. He needs out of the field house, stat.

"Thanks, Mrs. H, you're the greatest!" He vaults himself out of his chair and grabs the hem of Stéphane's shirt, tugging him along, Yu-Na and Tanith hot on their heels.

"Don't be late for the opening cookout," she yells after him. And then, when he doesn't respond, "JOHNNY."

"I promise!" he calls over his shoulder. He looks back just in time to catch her rolling her eyes at them, gesturing for Evan to go, follow them, get out here.

**

**day seven**

"Hey." Someone kicks Johnny in the ankle. When he opens his eyes, Rippon's standing there, dripping water all over the deck.

"What?"

"Aren't you supposed to be, you know, watching them?"

"I'm sure they'll make noise if they're drowning," Johnny says, waving his hand towards the lake. Next to him, Brian laughs. Adam sputters. The CIT's are always so uptight for the first few weeks. "Oh, relax," Johnny says, "Brian's keeping an eye on them."

As if to make a point, Brian blows his whistle. The group of boys wrestling out on the dock stop immediately.

Johnny pushes himself into a seated position. He presses his fingers experimentally into the skin on his arms. It goes from pink to white and then back to pink and he frowns. He's trying not to burn too badly this year.

"Did you need something?" Brian asks, turning one eye to Adam while keeping the other on the water.

"Yeah, uh, I'm supposed to tell you both that Yu-Na says riflery at zero hundred? Whatever that means."

Brian shrugs. "I do not know," he says, even though Johnny knows that's a blatant lie. They both know exactly what that means.

"Okay," Adam sighs. He stands there for a minute quietly, like he can't decide if he wants to ask another question. "Um," he says eventually, pointing to the diving board, "I think those two are trying to kill each other."

Johnny and Brian blow their whistles at the exact same time, and then they're too busy yelling to pay attention to Adam anymore.

**

Waiting 'til midnight is tough. Edge 4's lights-out is at eleven, which means Johnny has a long time to kill, and just laying there in the dark is tough. Especially after spending all day in the sun, chasing kids around, giving horseback riding lessons and making sure they don't drown each other. But if he falls asleep he's fucked, because he can't exactly set an alarm; the whole point of sneaking out is doing it without anybody hearing him leave.

So mostly he just stares at the ceiling, willing himself awake until his clock says 11:53, and whatever, that's close enough.

He rolls out of bed as quietly as possible, making sure not to step on that one loose board near the door. He's got his shoes in one hand and a jacket and a flashlight in the other, which makes shutting the door silently difficult, but not impossible. Once he's outside, it's three steps down and then a jump, because the bottom step always groans like someone's dying, and then Johnny's free. He ducks around the side of the cabin to put his shoes on, and that's when he hears,

"Going somewhere?"

Johnny jumps a fucking foot in the air and then punches Evan in the chest.

"Shit. Jesus _Christ_, Evan," he hisses, punching him again. His heart's going a million miles an hour.

Evan laughs quietly, his teeth shockingly white in the moonlight. "Sorry, sorry," he says, rubbing the spot where Johnny hit him. "I couldn't help it. Sorry."

"I hate you," Johnny says, glaring. He shrugs his jacket on and looks around furtively. "Come on, let's go."

**

The riflery's on the outskirts of camp, so it takes a few minutes to get there, Evan and Johnny jogging and not talking. Evan's got a hoodie clutched to his chest and Johnny wants to stop and make him put it on because he looks so fucking stupid, running like he's carrying a baby, but fuck it, if Evan wants to look stupid, he can. Johnny picks up the pace a little bit, out of spite.

"It's not a race, you know," Evan says, even as he matches Johnny stride for stride.

"Shhh."

Evan rolls his eyes. At this point, they're far enough away from the cabins that it's almost all-clear. Nobody's out here at this time of night, nobody except them.

Still. They're silent as they duck into the woods behind the riflery. Johnny clicks on his flashlight and they walk single-file down the path that's only there if you know what you're looking for.

"Are you sure this is it?" Evan asks, his voice low and so close to Johnny's ear that he can feel his breath warm on his skin.

Johnny twitches away from him and glares over his shoulder. "Yes, Evan, I'm sure. It hasn't changed since last year."

Sure enough they stumble into a tiny clearing to a chorus of _there they are!_ and _oh my god, FINALLY_'s.

"What do you mean, finally?" Johnny huffs, squeezing into the empty space between Yu-Na and Stéphane. "Rippon told me twelve."

"Not you finally, him finally." Tanith points at Evan, who unfolds his sweatshirt to reveal a bottle of vodka. Oh. Well that explains the weird, protective running.

Everyone claps and cheers appreciatively. Sasha doles out cups and Ben has a nalgene full of stolen bug juice he passes around. There's a pile of flashlights in the middle of the circle like a fire; Johnny tosses his on top and accepts a full drink from Stéphane.

Meryl waits until everyone's got a drink to hold her cup aloft.

"To week one," she says. "And seven more just like it."

"Here here." They all lean over the flashlight fire to clink cups.

**

**day eight**

The ratio of vodka to bug juice is pretty unfortunate (or extremely, extremely fortunate, depending on which way you look at it), so it doesn't take long for things to take a turn. Someone -- probably Tanith; it's always Tanith -- kicks off a round of I Never, and before he knows it, Johnny's sprawled on the ground and he can't feel his nose.

"I -- Huh." Yu-Na frowns, pressing her own. She does it again. "Can you normally feel your nose, though?"

Johnny shrugs. "I think Evan can," he whispers.

Yu-Na laughs and says, "And Brian."

Johnny pushes himself upright and cranes his neck to look at Brian before he nods in agreement and they both crack up, curling in on each other and trying not to spill their drinks. Johnny knows from experience that bug juice stains are permanent.

"I never -- " Sasha tilts her head thoughtfully. "I never..."

They've been going around the circle for so long they've run out of things to say.

"We should've brought cards," Charlie says while Sasha thinks.

"I should've brought my guitar."

"Nobody wants to hear your guitar, Benjamin," Tanith says, while everyone else boos him.

"Real nice, guys." Ben flattens his palm over his heart and pouts. "Real nice."

"OH!" Sasha snaps her fingers at her own brilliance and starts laughing before she can get any actual words out, which means it's probably good. Or that she's really drunk. (Or both. It's probably both, Johnny thinks, shifting so his weight's leaned mostly against Stéphane. He's more comfortable than Yu-Na. Like a person-sized pillow. It's nice.)

"I never," Sasha says when she's calmed down enough to talk, and even then it's an effort. "I never forgot my pants --"

She doesn't even finish the sentence because everyone's laughing too hard.

"That was ONE TIME." Evan's voice is all distorted because he's talking into his cup, taking his drink at the same time as he's glaring at everyone. It only makes them laugh harder.

**

Eventually the vodka runs out and everyone starts packing it up, grabbing flashlights and stumbling into each other, still laughing.

When they break out of the woods and into the open grass behind the riflery, Stéphane throws his arms around Johnny's neck.

"Carry me," he demands, trying to scramble onto Johnny's back. Johnny almost falls over.

"Mother_fucker_." He fights to regain his balance -- it takes a lot more effort than normal, but that's not Johnny's fault. The ground is totally moving -- and promptly elbows Stéphane in the stomach. "I can't carry you, you psycho."

Stéphane's still plastered to his back, though, so Johnny elbows him again, and then tries to twist away. But Stéph is wiry, and clingy, and Johnny's balance is completely effed, so instead of knocking Stéphane loose and walking away like normal, they end up in a pile on the ground. Everyone else ignores them and keeps walking back toward the cabins.

"Oh my god, get off me," Johnny says. The whole world spins while Johnny flails all his limbs ineffectively, trashing around while Stéphane twines himself around Johnny, holding on with all his might, and laughs and laughs into the crook of Johnny's neck. It tickles. Johnny yells some more, which makes Stéphane laugh harder, which makes it worse. It's a vicious cycle.

Desperate, Johnny pulls Stéphane's hair, trying to get him away from his neck. Stéphane bites his collarbone in retaliation, hard enough to make Johnny gasp, and just like that neither of them is laughing anymore. Stéphane lifts his head up enough that Johnny can see that he's still smiling, a slow, evil grin, and then he dips his head and does it again. Johnny's feels like he can't breathe.

There's a loud _crack_ from somewhere to the left and they both freeze. Stéphane sits up and looks around. Johnny panics and uses the momentary distraction to shove Stéphane off him; he rolls to the side, his legs still all tangled with Johnny's. They're both breathing hard.

"It is probably an animal," Stéphane says after a minute.

"Yeah." Still. They should get back. It's late.

Johnny closes his eyes. The ground underneath him is solid, but it feels like he's on a boat.

**

Reveille comes too fucking early. By the time Johnny gets to the mess -- ten minutes behind his cabin, that'll earn him a glare and maybe even a talking-to from Mr. H -- all he wants to do is lay down and die. Literally, right here on the floor, he'd be fine with that. They can build a memorial shrine around his tombstone, with candles and flowers and it would be beautiful. And his head wouldn't feel like someone was stabbing him in the skull with an ice pick. Win-win.

But death isn't an option; the only consolation is that everyone else looks just as ill. Tanith and Charlie both look green around the gills, dark circles under their eyes; Charlie's hair is a disaster. Evan's still wearing the clothes he had on last night, hood pulled up over his head like that'll help block out the light and noise. Johnny stumbles past Meryl's table in time to hear her say, "Let's play the quiet game, okay?"

Johnny tries it on his cabin when he slides into his seat. His campers aren't as cooperative as the 7-8 girls; they just laugh at him, and he's pretty sure three of them throw food at him, but he can't be bothered to pick his head up to look. Instead he concentrates on breathing and not moving a single muscle; later he'll be starving, and then he'll have to bribe Boitano to sneak him food out of the kitchen, but right now all he can stomach is water.

When the kids get up to clear their trays, Johnny stays seated, hands clutched around his glass. Someone rests their hand on the back of Johnny's neck comfortingly.

"I'm dying," Johnny says, hoping it's not one of the H's who wandered over to see why he looks like shit on toast.

"No, you are fine," Stéphane says. He digs his thumb into the sweet spot at the base of Johnny's skull and it feels wonderful. Johnny never wants him to stop. He smiles appreciatively, and Stéphane chuckles. "See? Not dying."

When Johnny opens his eyes, Meryl is watching them. It feels weird for some reason, and Johnny can feel his face flush. Stéphane tugs the hair at the nape of his neck to get his attention (and oh, awesome, now Johnny's blushing even harder, remembering the grass and the sky and Stéphane's teeth) and as Johnny's turning his head to look at Stéphane, he catches this _look_ on Meryl's face, just a flicker of something. Realization, maybe? He has no idea.

"How come you're not dying?" he asks, pulling away from Stéphane.

Stéphane smiles and says something long-winded with lots of hand gestures that Johnny ignores in favor of trying to figure out what Meryl's thinking. But when he glances over, she's gone from her table.

It's weird, Johnny thinks, because he has no idea what people think is going on with him and Stéphane. Maybe they don't think anything at all. But they... they probably talk, right? Like, Mr. H found them last week, but it's not like he _saw_ anything, he just jumped to his own conclusions. And sure, they were... kind of the right conclusions, but it's not like he knows that for sure.

Besides, Stéphane's the same way with everyone, all touchy-feely and "Can I have a hug? Hold my hand! Let's lay our towels right next to each other even though the entire beach is empty. Do you want to spoon?" He's been like that for as long as Johnny -- as long as everyone at camp's -- known him. God, even Brian patiently puts up with it, doesn't even flinch when Stephane's forces him to give him piggyback rides to the lake while Brian curses at him in French and Stéphane laughs, the two of them the only ones who understand what the fuck they're saying. So. Maybe no one really knows what's going on. Because sometimes... sometimes Johnny doesn't even know what's going on.

Whatever, it's summer and he's pathetically hungover. He tries not to think too hard about it.

"D'accord?" Stéphane says, story over.

"Yeah." Johnny smiles wanly. "Sure."

Stéphane grins and reaches out to ruffle his hair. Johnny doesn't duck away. He tells himself it's because he doesn't have the energy.

**day thirteen**

It starts after Evan's cabin beats Johnny's in the Annual Camp Lutz Kickball Tournament.

(Technically it started ages ago, because the Edge 4 vs Blade 4 rivalry is as old as Camp Lutz itself, the kind of thing legends are made of, where campers who used to be friends become enemies just because of their cabin assignments. It's stupid, but it's also tradition.

This year it comes to a head _during_ the tournament, when, with his team down by one run in the top of the ninth, Evan's pitcher hit Johnny's two best players above the waist. Johnny's pitcher went out the next inning and nailed Evan's clean-up batter in the shoulder and, well. It didn't end pretty. Because Evan charged the plate, calling for an ejection, so Johnny had to charge the plate and defend his team, and Evan kicked some dirt and yeah, in hindsight maybe Johnny shouldn't have yelled, "are you fucking kidding me?" but whatever. It was the heat of the moment, he said some things, it happens. More often than not, with him.

And what also happened was that he got ejected. Ben ended up coaching the rest of the game, and he's good, but Johnny's pitcher was rattled and gave up two quick runs.

It sucked.

Naturally, Johnny's team was pissed. More than pissed, even, because not only did they lose to Lysacek's Losers, but their coach wasn't even _there_, and that was when someone -- Johnny doesn't know who, he put his headphones in as soon as they got back to the cabin. Plausible deniability -- called for revenge.

And that's how they ended up here.)

There's a medal ceremony just before dinner, the whole shebang -- podiums, Mr. H handing out medals and shaking hands, and everyone standing while the cabin banners are lowered and the national anthem plays from some crappy tape deck like it's 1992.

Normally there's a fair amount of shoving and fart noises in the silence before the banners lower. But today Johnny's campers all stand stock still, almost reverent, and he knows, just _knows_, that whatever happens next, they're responsible for. He shoots them a sideways glare, trying to look angry and intimidating and nonchalant all at once, but they stare innocently ahead.

The music starts and there's an audible gasp from the camp. Johnny shuts his eyes and inhales through his nose and forces his expression to be blank and when he looks -- yup. There it is, the Blade 4 flag hanging in the gold medal position, SUX painted sloppily across it.

"This means WAR," he hears one of Evan's kids say while Mr. H and Boitano scramble to get the banners down.

**

"I'm just saying, you could've feigned a little shock," Johnny says later, in that quiet lull right before lights out.

They all stare blankly at him, and then:

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"I was too shocked to be shocked?"

Johnny rolls his eyes at them. "Likely story," he says. "I just hope there isn't any -- what should we call it? Evidence to the contrary? -- lying around."

**day fourteen**

Johnny isn't expecting it, which is stupid on his part, because of course he should be expecting it. Of course there would be retaliation.

The worst part is: it happens when he's the only one in the cabin. He gets back from a trail ride with Meryl and her Loop 2 girls and he's disgusting; it's hot as hell outside and all he wants to do is get out of his riding gear and into the shower. He isn't thinking about anything other than that when he pulls his shirt over his head and flicks the switch for the ceiling fan. The next thing he knows, he's covered in flour.

**

"What is this?" Stéphane asks, when Johnny runs into him on his way to the showers. Stéphane takes it all in -- Johnny'd just thrown a tank top on over the pants he'd been wearing, no sense dirtying a million outfits, and grabbed his towel and showers shoes and something clean to throw on -- and his lips start doing that twitchy thing they do; Johnny clenches his hands into fists.

"Don't," he warns. "I'm already pissed."

It's useless. Stéphane's already in hysterics, and that just makes it that much worse. He's hot and gross and sticky and, "I think it's making a paste," he whines, trailing a finger down his arm. Maybe he stomps his foot a little, too.

Stéphane stops laughing and takes a step closer, and then again, until he's completely invading Johnny's personal space. He reaches out and carefully swipes his thumb along Johnny's cheekbone, looking appropriately pitying.

"Ugh," Johnny says, when Stéphane inspects his thumb. "It's flour."

Stéphane shrugs and gently grabs Johnny's wrist. "Come," he says, tugging him towards the bathrooms. Johnny half-heartedly protests the whole way, until they get inside and Stéphane's still holding on. Usually this is the point where Stéphane will stop -- he'll laugh it off or get distracted or do something ridiculous like turn it into a tickle fight. But things have been different this summer, in a lot of ways, and Johnny waits for Stéphane to get to that turning point, and then he keeps waiting while Stéphane manhandles him towards the stalls, one hand low on Johnny's waist, his breath hot on the back of Johnny's neck. It's jarring, the instant Johnny realizes why Stéphane's so intent on dragging into the shower.

Johnny's protests turn serious.

"What are you? You -- we cannot -- Stéphane, no. No. Oh my god."

He digs in his heels and tries to use all his weight, but Stéphane just laughs and shoves him into the shower still wearing his clothes.

"There is no one here," Stéphane says. "And besides," he holds up his hand, his palm white from where it had been wrapped around Johnny's wrist. There's flour all over his clothes, too, clinging disgustingly to his bathing suit. "I am all dirty."

Johnny shakes his head and refuses to laugh, and then Stéphane is pulling off his shirt and crowding into the stall with him, reaching past him to turn on the water. Johnny gasps when the spray hits his back, ice cold. Stéphane chuckles and Johnny can feel the vibrations of it where their chests are pressed together.

"Désolé, désolé," he murmurs, trying to get the water to a temperature that isn't horrible. Johnny frowns and shifts so he can stick his head under the spray and scrub his face. When he turns back, Stéphane is smiling at him. Johnny can feel all the annoyance -- at Stéphane, at the heat, at Evan's stupid cabin and their stupid powder -- fading away. Stéphane leans closer, pressing against Johnny's chest and hips and thighs, their knees knocking. There's not enough room for them both in here.

"If you get us fired --"

"You can stay with me," Stéphane says, sliding his hand up Johnny's back, pushing up his top. He's close, so close, leaning in not quite all the way, infuriatingly waiting for Johnny to close the gap.

"I'm not moving to Switzerland," Johnny says, right before he does it, and then Stéphane is laughing into his mouth, trying to say something about Lausanne and kiss Johnny at the same time. Johnny pinches his side, hard, murmurs, "Shut the fuck up," and lets himself get lost in the wet slide of Stéphane's lips. The hard planes of Stéphane's stomach, the jut of his hipbones under Johnny's palms. Stéphane works a knee in between Johnny's, curls an arm around his waist and pulls him closer and when he rolls his hips Johnny fights back a moan. They find a rhythm, a slow, easy give-and-take, and then everything reduces down to the two of them, here, and the rush of the water echoing off the walls.

Stéphane's got his mouth on Johnny's pulse and his fingers dipping into Johnny's waistband when he starts maneuvering them, pushing Johnny backwards. He ducks lower, kissing Johnny's chest, the hollow of his throat, his sternum, leaning back up to kiss him full-on, lips and tongue and everything is so wet.

Stéphane's undoing Johnny's fly with one hand, his other hand flat on Johnny's chest, trying to get him to take another step backwards, to lean against the wall. And Johnny's distracted, obviously, so he does, just for a second, and then his eyes fly open and he actually jumps.

Oh my god. They're in the camp showers. The walls are older than he is, and who knows the last time they've been cleaned with anything stronger than, like, someone accidentally spilling shampoo.

Stéphane looks confused, because usually Johnny curling into him is a welcome thing but right now he had something else in mind.

"I..." Johnny says, gesturing at their surroundings helplessly. He shudders a little, thinking about how his bare shoulder touched that wall and oh, ew. Ew ew ew. "I can't."

Stéphane tilts his head and doesn't say anything. For a second it looks like he's considering the logistics of it, but then he puts two and two together and gets to the same place Johnny is: no one wants to touch anything, there isn't a lot of room for anything, and the flour and water really are forming some sort of paste now, so Johnny's actually disgusting.

Johnny loops his arms around Stéphane's waist, nuzzles his cheek. He lets his lips brush Stéphane's ear when he says, "I'm sorry."

Stéphane shrugs. "It was a good idea in theory."

"In theory," Johnny agrees. Stéphane presses a loud, smacking kiss to Johnny's cheek and snakes a hand up to keep Johnny from squirming away when he turns the kiss into a giant raspberry. Ah, _there's_ the turning point Johnny was expecting earlier.

"Ugh." Johnny shoves him. Stéphane laughs and does it again, louder and longer, cackling with glee when Johnny makes outraged noises and shoves him harder.

"Oh my god, get the fuck out," Johnny says, but he's laughing now, too. "I have to shower."

**day fifteen**

"Did I hear that Blade 4 streaked this afternoon?" Tanith says, sidling up to Johnny in the mess. He raises one eyebrow and she continues, "Seems someone stole all their clothes and their towels while they were in the shower."

Johnny looks down at his tray, straightens his fork. Meryl flanks his other side.

"Oh, did you ask him about the Stéphane thing?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Johnny says icily. "Either of you."

**day sixteen**

Johnny wakes up and there are hundreds of cups on the front porch of his cabin, all the way down the steps, an inch of water in every single one.

It's a coincidence that Blade 4 gets back that afternoon to find all their stuff -- mattress, clothes, everything -- on the grass in front of their cabin. Total coincidence.

**day seventeen**

There's toilet paper _everywhere_, and cooking oil slicked all over the cabin floors. They're late to lunch because Johnny makes them clean it up before they go --

"But it's not FAIR."

"Love and war," Johnny says, kicking off his shoes so he can stand on his bed. They don't complain after that.

\-- and Mrs. H grabs his elbow when he walks in, pulling him aside.

"Front office, fifteen minutes," she says. She doesn't look happy.

**

Both the H's are there, which means Business. Or Trouble. Johnny's gut says it's the latter.

"What's wro -- oh." Johnny stops short when he sees Evan sitting there. Mrs. H motions for Johnny to sit, and then it's quiet just long enough for things to get uncomfortable. Evan stares at his hands. Johnny picks imaginary lint off his shorts.

"This has got to stop," Mr. H says, finally. "The summer isn't even halfway over, and here you two are --"

"Sir," Evan interrupts, "I can't speak for him, but I know that _I_ haven't been involved in any --"

Johnny scoffs. "What the hell does that mean, 'you can't speak for me?' Are you saying I'm the mastermind --"

"Guys." Mrs. H glares at the both of them. "We're not saying either of you is plotting. But you _are_ turning a blind eye, and things are obviously escalating -- don't look at me like that. Oil on the floors? Somebody could've gotten hurt. And then we'd all be in trouble. It's gone on long enough."

"Come on," Johnny says, a hint of a whine in his voice. "It's just some harmless pranks. It's not like they're sending hookers and blow to each other's cabins."

"Johnny," Mrs. H sighs, the _too far_ completely obvious. Mr. H turns a weird shade of purple and Evan twitches like he's trying really, really hard not to react.

Mrs. H steeples her fingers together and levels her I Am Not Kidding This Time gaze at him. "It's time --"

"I'll put an end to it," Evan says, at the same time as Johnny huffs a sigh and says, "Fine. I'll talk to them."

"Good." Mrs. H nods and there's a long, weird moment where she and Mr. H look at each other like they're having one of those silent conversations with their eyes, until Mrs. H rolls her eyes and says, "One more thing."

"We have an idea for a bit of a -- " Mr. H frowns, "what should we call it?"

"A punishment?" Johnny suggests.

"A bonding activity."

The way he says it makes the hair on the back of Johnny's neck stand up.

"Uh..." is all Evan says, and that makes Johnny want to smack him because if anybody's going to talk the H's out of whatever crack plan they've come up with, it's Evan. Johnny's only good at wheedling out of the dumb things. Evan's the one they listen to after they've made up their minds.

"I know the 4's don't usually go on their camping trip until August, but we figured since things are so... tense, it might help. To move it up."

Johnny and Evan are silent. Johnny feels like he's suffered brain trauma recently -- he knows what Mr. H is saying, but he can't process it. He's saying words, and they're in English, but Johnny still doesn't understand.

"We're sending you this week," Mr. H clarifies. "You'll leave Thursday after lunch and be back in time for the bonfire Friday night."

"Are you sure --" Johnny starts, because he has to try. But Mr. H cuts him off.

"And hopefully by the time you get back, you'll have found a way to resolve whatever -- " he waves his hands around, "issues your cabins have."

"Or you'll all kill each other, and it won't matter either way," Mrs. H says, smiling.

Johnny laughs weakly. Next to him, Evan makes a sound like he's already dying.﻿

**day nineteen**

Johnny's walking aimlessly around, avoiding packing for The Camping Trip From Hell, as he's taken to calling it. His campers are spending the afternoon in last minute wilderness training that Johnny begged out of. Technically he's trained for this a million times throughout the years. He could win fucking Survivor if he wanted to, he has so many years of experience under his belt. Years of listening to Stojko explain how to set up tents and how to string up food in case of bears and how to start fires with, like, a pair of reading glasses. So, yeah, he doesn't need to sit through it again.

Especially if there's a way to get out of the trip. He's trying to think of the best way out -- maybe they'd believe it if he faked sick? Or he could "accidentally" trip over a log in the first five minutes and spend a few days in his cabin, recuperating? Or he could hide until it was too late and they had to leave without him? -- when he hears someone singing. He follows the sound and of course it's Stéphane. Johnny can see him through the open door of Edge 3. He's cleaning the cabin. He's got headphones on, swiveling his hips to old-school Britney, singing along. Sometimes he runs, sometimes he cries, sometimes he's scared.

Johnny watches for a minute, leaning against the doorjamb, until Stéphane spins around and notices him. He stops dancing, stops singing, but he doesn't really look embarrassed. Instead he grins.

"Feel like harboring a fugitive?" Johnny asks.

"What?" Stéphane yanks out his earbuds.

"Never mind."

Stéphane waves Johnny inside and Johnny flops onto his unmade bed. He toes his sneakers off without saying anything. Stéphane smiles at him for a second and then goes back to straightening up. Johnny watches him bustle about -- folding blankets, tucking away stray shoes -- until everything's seemingly in its place and Stéphane comes to sit by Johnny's hip. He plucks at a loose thread on the sheets. They have ladybugs on them. Johnny makes a face, because oh my god, seriously. Stéphane notices.

"What?" he says. "First you do not like the showers. Now you do not like my bed." He shifts from offended straight into sad, because no one can resist Stéphane's sad face.

Johnny knees him in the back. Not hard, but enough. "You're such a..." He doesn't know what.

"Yes?" Stéphane leans closer and gets all insufferable about it, poking Johnny in the arm and the side. Johnny sits up to get away from him, but there's not really any place to _go_. "I am such a --" Stéphane prompts.

Johnny rolls his eyes, annoyed, and climbs on top of Stéphane's lap, straddling him and using the flat of his had to push Stéphane backwards, knocking him onto the bed. He means it in an "I hate you, shut up," kind of way, but Stéphane laughs and wiggles, rocks his hips up into Johnny, and this wasn't what he'd been intending when he walked in her, but.

"Where's your cabin?" he asks, looking around. The door's shut -- he doesn't remember when that happened. Probably during Stéphane's Cinderella-ing. Huh.

"They are with Meryl, starting their practice for the Extravaganza. I do not see them again until 4."

Johnny glances at the clock. Nice. "You've got some time then?"

Stéphane strokes his thumbs over Johnny's hipbones. "Peut-être."

Johnny's mouth falls open, insulted, and Stéphane breaks into a smile. And then he fists a hand in Johnny's shirt and pulls him downward, until Johnny's flush against him. Stéphane noses his cheek and loops his arms around Johnny's waist in a loose hug, and just when Johnny's starting to think what the fuck, does he really just want to cuddle? Stéphane turns his face and kisses him. It startles a gasp out of Johnny, in the same way that kissing Stéphane is always a little shocking. He doesn't know why, it's just the way it is. Johnny runs his tongue along the seam of his lips and Stéphane's mouth opens willingly, sliding his hand up from Johnny's waist to the back of his neck, carding his fingers through his hair. He tugs on Johnny's hair gently, uses that to change the angle. His other hand drags across Johnny's back where his shirt is already riding up, and then over the swell of his ass, and back up again, a lazy, distracting pattern. Johnny shifts, already hard and desperate for friction, and when it's not enough he pushes up onto his forearms so he can reposition himself without losing the wet, hot slide of Stéphane's tongue against his.

It's better after that, so much better. Johnny grinds down and swallows up Stéphane's answering moan, riding out his upward thrust. Stéphane bites Johnny's bottom lip and then nips at his jaw, his earlobe. His breath is warm against Johnny's skin, coming in fast, shallow bursts, like he can't get it under control. Johnny ducks his head and licks a stripe up Stéphane's neck, wonders if Stéphane's heartbeat is going as crazy as his breath, as crazy as Johnny's own pulse. Because Johnny's starting to feel like he's losing it over here.

Stéphane's hands slide under Johnny's shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, pushing the shirt up, up, until it's caught under his armpits and Johnny has to sit up to take it off. Stéphane watches appreciatively, trailing his hands down Johnny's sides, over his abs.

"Now you," Johnny says, plucking at the hem of Stéphane's shirt. Stéphane sits up quickly and Johnny has to lean backwards, hands on the bed so he doesn't fall over. And then his shirt's off, tossed carelessly onto the floor, and Stéphane's trying to kiss him and get him back in the same position as before all at the same time, pulling Johnny forward and down and on top of him in a mess of hands and knees and elbows and lips. Everything feels sped up all of a sudden, and Johnny can't get enough, no matter how much of Stéphane's skin he touches. He does something, he wishes he could remember what, that makes Stéphane gasp and his hips buck up. Johnny thrusts down, point counterpoint, and Stéphane groans this time, low and in the back of his throat, and then he's fighting with Johnny's pants and with his own, trying to get them both off at the same time.

Johnny bats Stéphane's hands away from his fly so he can deal with them and Stéphane can focus on his own; he rolls to the side so they can kick them off. It doesn't help that Stéphane keeps leaning over to kiss or lick or bite whatever part of Johnny's skin is nearest, it just means it takes longer because neither of them can really focus when Stéphane's got his mouth on Johnny's nipple.

There's a beat when they're both laying there, finally naked, breathing heavy, that their eyes lock and something in Stéphane's gaze is so open that Johnny feels like he can't breathe. Stéphane skims his hand all the way up Johnny's side, from his knee to his neck, and Johnny desperately wants to look away, to close his eyes, to do _something_, anything, to get Stéphane to stop looking at him like that.

He pushes himself up on one arm and rolls back on top of Stéphane, which does the trick, because Stéphane's eyes flutter shut and he exhales heavily. Stéphane's dick is hot and hard against his hip, same as Johnny's own, and when Johnny thrusts his hips experimentally, Stéphane bites his lip and clutches blindly at Johnny's hip, fingers digging hard into his flesh. It takes time for them to find a good rhythm, but eventually Stéphane gets a leg hooked around Johnny's and a hand around both their dicks and "Oh god, oh fuck," Johnny says, fucking into his fist, gasping at the perfect slide of Stéphane's cock against his.

He can feel Stéphane's mouth curve into a smile against his shoulder and he wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, but that would require the ability to get an actual sentence out and he doesn't think he could do that right now.

"Stéphane," is all he manages, his voice strained, broken, but it's enough. Stéphane stops biting along Johnny's shoulder and kisses him again, frantic and messy, all lips and teeth and tongue, and they can't quite get it right because they're both breathing too hard, because the rhythm of it all is getting away from them, they're both picking up speed, and Johnny starts to feel like he's coming undone. Stéphane adjusts his grip, does something with his wrist that wrenches a moan from Johnny's throat, and Johnny drops his head, drags his mouth along Stéphane's jaw, nips at his neck while Stéphane pants in his ear. And then Stéphane's coming, babbling in a jumble of French and English that Johnny can't decipher because he's coming too, his face pressed against Stéphane's neck as he mutters nonsense into the hollow of his throat.

The lie there, catching their breath. Everything is hot and sticky, the air around them hanging thick like a storm is coming. Johnny rolls over eventually, lets Stéphane wipe their stomachs clean with his discarded shirt. Lets Stéphane kiss him again, slow and lazy, pressing him into the mattress.

Stéphane curls into him, not kissing anymore, just there, quiet and happy and comfortable. It hits Johnny then, that they're in Stéphane's bed, and it's kind of overwhelming. Everything else has been supply closets and showers and grassy knolls, places tucked away from everything, from everyone. Secretive. But this, here, it's different. It feels normal, like something real and not -- not whatever it was, is, Johnny doesn't know anymore. He's confused, and it's just. It's all too much.

He looks at the clock.

"I should..." he says quietly. Stéphane hesitates for a millisecond before he nods. Johnny's already pushing himself up, finding his clothes.

He leaves without saying anything else.

**

It's nothing, he tells himself. He's being silly. Dramatic. He and Stéphane, they're just... They're fooling around.

Every time he starts to believe it, he thinks of Stéphane's touch, his stupid sheets, his _face_ in that moment, his face when Johnny said he was leaving and --

Johnny lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He tries to stop thinking about it.

Because there's nothing to think about. It's nothing.

**day twenty**

Johnny stomps on twig. The loud snap is mildly satisfying. He scans the ground for another one, or a rock to kick.

Stojko's at the front -- the H's may have their moments but they aren't stupid enough to send Johnny and Evan and twenty-four kids into the woods completely unsupervised -- laughing and talking to the kids about the virtues of hunting or how to attack a bear before it attacks you or whatever as he leads them up the trail. Evan's next to Johnny, the two of them bringing up the rear, keeping an eye out for stragglers. It sucks.

"Come on, Johnny," Evan says. They've been walking forever. It's the first thing Evan's said to him since he said good morning outside the mess and Johnny glared at him until he walked away. "This is fun!" He's half cajoling, half sarcastic, and he definitely laughs at his own stupid joke. Johnny wants to kick a rock at his face.

It's hot and he's exhausted and his sock is rubbing at his ankle in a way that spells blister and his pack's heavy as fuck and he hates the entire world.

"Don't start with me, Evan," he says. "Not here."

Evan smirks and takes a sip from his canteen. He promptly chokes. Johnny rolls his eyes. Trust Evan to die drinking water. Dumbass.

"It's cool," Evan gets out between coughs. "I'm fine."

Johnny doesn't look at him. He wasn't asking.

They go back to walking silently.

**

Evan shines his flashlight at another set of trees. Or maybe the same set of trees. Jesus, the Camping Trip From Hell is really living up to its name.

"Didn't you get out of wilderness training because you were good at this?" Evan asks. It's about as close to snippy as Evan and his stupid monotone ever get.

Johnny doesn't answer at first because he's resolutely not speaking to Evan, but then Evan turns the flashlight on him, shining it right in his eyes like it's the fucking Inquisition.

"_Theoretically_ good at it." Johnny swats at the flashlight, knocking the beam out of his eyes. "It's not like I ever practiced, I just figured it'd be like... osmosis."

Evan stares at him.

"You know, when it seeps into your brain --"

"I know what osmosis is." Evan's yelling like Johnny's the stupid one in this situation, and fine, Johnny supposes he is, but whatever. He didn't actually think he'd ever _need_ to be able to start a fire with glasses. He doesn't even _wear_ glasses.

And it's not like he willingly went on the sunset nature hike, or like he planned to get lost. It was just -- Stojko was doing his godawful Man Vs Wild imitation and Johnny stopped to tie his shoe and Evan fucking stood there, waiting like Johnny was some incompetent moron, so Johnny'd taken purposefully long -- way, way longer than necessary, at first because he was hoping Evan would take a hint and go the fuck away, and then just to spite him -- and every time Evan tried to hurry him up, Johnny moved even slower and now. Well. Now they're kind of fucked.

"This is all your fault," Evan mutters as they trudge down a path. It might not even be a path. It's too dark to tell.

"_My_ fault?" Johnny ignores Evan's glare. "The whole reason we're on this stupid trip is because of _your_ cabin."

"Uh --"

"Oil on my floors, Evan."

"You got us lost in the woods."

"_You_ got me thrown out of the game."

"You got YOURSELF thrown out of the game."

They go back and forth like that for god knows how long. It's the same argument over and over, looping back to "no, it's all _your_ fault" every time, until Johnny realizes that at this point he's kind of just yelling at Evan for the sake of yelling at someone. That it feels good to vent.

"Whatever," he says, cutting off Evan's tirade about -- something. Edge 4 defacing his cabin's flag, Johnny thinks. He's pretty sure Evan claimed it made a mockery of the ceremony and that it 'besmirched our good name,' which -- "Wait, 'besmirched?' Really?"

"What?"

"Nothing." Johnny laughs to himself. "I just -- that's a big word for you, Evan."

Evan clenches his jaw and contorts his hands like he wants to wring Johnny's neck. "You know," he starts, all the tension and anger evident in his voice, but Johnny notices something out of the corner of his eye and stops him.

"Hey. What's that?"

Evan points his flashlight in the direction Johnny's pointing his own, towards even more light cutting through the trees. "It looks like a fire?"

"I know it looks like a -- oh my god, come on." Johnny doesn't wait for Evan. He cuts through the swath of trees, lets the branches swing back into place behind him and if they accidentally hit Evan with some force because of it, well. He should really learn to keep up.

"There you are!" Stojko says, the whole group turning to look. "We were just about to send out a search party."

From the looks of it -- everyone sitting comfortably around the campfire, eating hot dogs and baked potatoes -- no one was planning on looking for them at all. At least not any time soon.

Johnny opens his mouth to explain, but Evan's pushing past him, reaching for dinner and talking bullshit about how they navigated by the North Star like they've all been taught to.

**

"The North Star?" Johnny says later, keeping his voice low. Evan shrugs.

"It sounds better than 'we got lost and accidentally found our way back,' doesn't it?"

It's Johnny's turn to shrug, even though yeah, it kind of does. It definitely does.

He shifts, trying to get comfortable, but it's kind of impossible when you're leaning against a fucking boulder. He's still hot and still tired and still thirsty; he wishes the kids would just go to bed so he could finally get some fucking sleep, but no, Stojko's got a thousand ghost stories to tell and they apparently won't rest until they've heard them all.

Johnny leans over, reaching across Evan to grab his canteen.

"Hey! What's wrong with yours?"

"It's empty." Johnny sighs, annoyed. "Don't worry, Evan, you're not going to catch my _germs_ or anything." He grabs for it again. Evan spazzes and tries to move it out of Johnny's reach, but he's not quick enough.

"I wouldn't --"

"What?"

Evan holds his hands up like he's surrendering. "No, you know what? Go for it."

Johnny does, with a prim thank you as he unscrews the cap. Of course, he ends up choking on the first sip. Evan fucking laughs at him.

"Holy shitballs, that _burns_." He hits Evan hard, right in the gut. Evan laughs even harder, curling in on himself to protect from Johnny's fist, trying to keep quiet so he doesn't disrupt Stojko's crappy story.

"What the fuck?" Johnny hisses. He takes another sip, careful this time. Vodka, neat. Seriously, what the fuck?

"Meryl," Evan says, sitting up. He takes the canteen back and takes a sip for himself. He shudders like he can feel it all the way down his spine. "She gave it to me this morning, swapped it with my normal canteen right before we were leaving. She said she hoped it would make you more tolerable."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Evan side-eyes him and Johnny huffs, crosses his arms.

**

They stay up well after the kids all climb into their tents, ostensibly to make sure none of them sneak out and like, try to go swimming or accidentally start a forest fire or whatever.

It's quiet. They're not really talking. The canteen's between them, still mostly full. Johnny's warm and tingly all over; it's the calmest he's felt all day.

"This is why they sent Stojko with us," Johnny says, laughing quietly.

"I thought it was because we both suck at camping." Evan grins, even when Johnny halfheartedly smacks his arm. It's funny because it's true, and all that jazz.

Evan pokes at the fire, accidentally knocking over one of the logs and sending the flames even higher.

"Nice," Johnny says, laughing as Evan crab-walks backwards, scrambling to get away from it. He ends up colliding with Johnny's legs and collapsing half on top of them. Johnny kicks and pulls away and then, when Evan's too slow for his liking, flings a handful of pine needles and dirt at him.

"Hey!" Evan coughs on the dust and rolls away, all the way into a sitting position. He shakes out his hair like he's a dog, sending a spray of crap everywhere. Johnny goes to throw another handful of dirt, but this time Evan catches his wrists easily and leans close, eyebrows raised. He doesn't say anything. Johnny can feel his heart rate kicking up and he's hyper-aware of everything, Evan's stupidly big hands around his wrists and his breath hot on his skin and the way he's leaning, slightly overpowering, using his size to his advantage, like Johnny's nothing at all.

Johnny's breath catches in his throat. He has a flash of Stéphane, his wrists tensed, pulse racing while Johnny pinned him to a wall in the pantry just last week.

"I'm going to bed," Johnny announces. His voice sounds loud, foreign. Evan lets go of his wrists and Johnny stands up. Evan looks confused, but Johnny doesn't offer an explanation.

He unzips the flap to his tent. Behind him, he hears the hiss of the fire going out.

Johnny lays down and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. It's not like he's cheating on Stéphane, he tells himself. Nothing happened. Plus, there has to be a relationship first, for there to be someone to cheat on. Right?

He blinks up at the dull green roof of his tent. Somewhere outside, an owl hoots. Johnny inhales, exhales. Nothing happened. He isn't cheating on Stéphane.

Then why does he feel so guilty?

**day twenty-one**

Johnny wakes up with a hangover completely disproportionate to the amount he drank. He figures he probably deserves it.

**

By the time they get back to camp, he's in a horrible mood. Again. Still. Whichever.

He heads straight for the showers, ignoring everyone along the way. He needs some time to decompress. It works, too, until he steps out and sees Tanith sitting on the counter.

"So are you guys like BFFs now?" she asks, smirking, while he shimmies into his jeans.

"Yes, Tanith, that's exactly what happened. We stayed up late talking and laughing and reconciling our differences. It was a regular ABC Family movie."

She kicks out her foot and catches his knee. He stops his moisturizing routine to look at her.

"Evan and I are never going to be friends," he says. It lacks a certain venom, though. Tanith rolls her eyes and he glares at her. "We're not."

"You used to."

Johnny turns back to the mirror. "Yeah, and I used to wear orange and fuchsia together, but that's never going to happen again, either."

She's quiet as Johnny styles his hair. Eventually she sighs. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

She hops off the counter and comes behind him to give him a hug. "Aww," she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Well, we missed you while you were gone."

There are so many layers in one sentence; he knows exactly what she's trying to say, exactly who that "we" includes.

Johnny watches her watch his reaction in the warped glass of the mirror. He looks down at the counter. "It was one day, Tan."

Tanith doesn't say anything.

"It's getting dark," Johnny says. "We should go, or we'll be late." He slides out from between Tanith and the counter, gathers all his stuff into his arms, and heads for the door.

"Johnny," she calls out after him. It's useless, though. They both know he won't turn around.

**

Stéphane spends most of his time with Shizuka and Brian at the bonfire, laughing and spinning Shizuka in circles, making the kids clap and squeal. The younger girls keep lining up to dance with him, while the older ones hang back, feigning disinterest.

Johnny sits even farther away, watching from a distance. He thinks he should probably say something to Stéphane -- he doesn't think they've even said hello since Johnny stormed through camp after the trip. (That's a lie. Johnny knows they haven't. He also knows they should. But, well. Knowing and doing are two different things.)

So he waits for Stéphane to make the first move.

Which he does, of course, smoothly extracting himself from his dance party and sliding into the empty space next to Johnny.

"How was your trip?"

"Horrible." Johnny watches the fire jump and spark. Stéphane makes a cooing noise and winds his arms around Johnny like a vine. Johnny lets him, leans into it, even. But he doesn't know what to say.

"But I see you did not kill Evan. That is good news." Johnny raises an eyebrow and Stéphane continues, "I do not think you would do well in prison."

"Bitch, I'd be great in prison," Johnny says, mostly because he's contrary like that, and he hates when people accuse him of being shitty at things. Stéphane knows that, so he just cracks up and nuzzles into the curve of Johnny's neck, making him squirm until Stéphane knocks them both off the log they'd been sitting on and onto the ground.

"Nice, guys," Sasha says, toeing Stéphane in the ribs. Most of the camp is watching them. Johnny can feel his face turning red.

Stéphane gets up and holds his hand out to Johnny. "They do not even let you have hair gel in prison," he says, pulling Johnny up.

"Oh, blow me." He means it as an insult, a retort, nothing at all behind it, but Stéphane's eyes flicker down and back up again and Johnny's face goes hot. How is Stéphane acting like everything is normal? Like Johnny didn't have a fit the last time they were together? Like absolutely nothing is different?

He laughs weakly. Stéphane runs his thumb over the thin skin on the inside of Johnny's wrist and something deep in Johnny's gut twists into a knot.

Stéphane looks down a second time and Johnny thinks _oh god_ and _not here_ and _yes, okay_ but it turns out it's one of the youngest campers tugging on Stéphane's free hand, begging him to come dance, please oh please oh please.

Stéphane clears his throat, says, "With you? It would be an honor!" and lets her drag him away.

As soon as he's gone, Tanith slides up next to Johnny. "Are you okay?"

He nods dumbly. "Yeah. Fine." He shakes his head, clearing it, and looks at her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason."

Johnny clears his throat, and then does it again, just to be safe. "We're good," he says. "Everything's good."

He turns around, sits on his log angled in the other direction, hoping it'll help prove his point. Tanith waits for a second and then sits next to him, wrapping her arms around one of his, resting her chin on his shoulder. They listen as Meryl and Jeremy try to coax Ben into playing some ridiculous song,

"You know, 'shining, shimmering, splendid,'" Meryl sings.

"Don't know it," Ben says, shrugging.

"Liar," Jeremy says. He sings a different part, every moment red-letter, but Ben shrugs again, strums a few chords from something that's nothing like what they're requesting. Tanith laughs, so Johnny does too, belatedly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Stéphane twirl the little girl. The knot in his gut twists a little tighter.

**day twenty-two**

Stéphane kisses him in the darkened space between Edge 3 and Edge 4. He tastes like burnt marshmallows and chocolate. If Johnny breathes deeply enough, he can smell the bonfire clinging to Stéphane's hair, his shirt. It's all the things Johnny loves about camp, right here, in human form, pressing him up against the wall and _oh_, Johnny loves this about camp, too.

They're supposed to be in bed. Or at least in their own cabins. And they had been, or at least, Johnny had, and then there'd been a scratching on his window-screen and once he'd gotten over the "hook-handed murderer come to kill the cabin and hang their bodies in the trees" heart attack and realized it was Stéphane -- well. Here they are.

It's a pretty nice place to be.

Stéphane leans against him, unusually still, like he's trying to decide which patch of skin to kiss next. And Johnny's feeling brave right now, in the dark. He doesn't know why, exactly. Maybe it's endorphins, maybe it's sleep-deprivation finally catching up to him. Maybe because he can't see all of Stéphane's features, so if his face falls, Johnny won't have to see it.

"Hey," he says before Stéphane makes his next move. "What is... this?" Johnny waves a hand, gesturing between them as best he can.

Stéphane leans back, his face lost in the shadows. He's quiet for a second that manages to feel like a year, enough time for Johnny to think he's fucked up royally, that maybe this was one of those things they were never supposed to talk about and now that they have, it's ruined.

"It's us," he says, like that's an acceptable answer. Like it's just that simple.

"No, Stéphane," Johnny sighs, suddenly exasperated. But then Stéphane is kissing him again, his hand snaking between them to play at the button of Johnny's shorts, and okay, Johnny thinks, us. Maybe it _is_ that simple.

**day twenty-nine**

"You -- this is not," Stéphane gasps out, trying to breathe and kiss Johnny and talk all at the same time, "not very. Productive."

Johnny pulls back, stepping out of the vee of Stéphane's legs, away from the counter Stéphane's sitting on. He keeps his hands light on his thighs, trailing his fingertips down the sides. "Then maybe you need to stop talking?" he suggests.

Stéphane glares at him for a long beat. He's clearly aiming for menacing and possibly angry, but with his disheveled hair and kiss-swollen lips it's not nearly as effective as he thinks. Johnny pretends it is, though.

"Okay," he says with a sigh. "Where did you leave off?" He steps forward, closer to Stéphane again, and reaches for the clipboard on the counter. He rests his other hand high on Stéphane's inner thigh -- for balance, of course -- and smirks when Stéphane makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat.

Stéphane leans back, bracing himself on his hands. Trying to put space between them. Johnny removes his hand and shifts, letting some of his weight rest on Stéphane's knee while he reads the inventory list Stéphane had been running through before Johnny found him.

"There's twenty XXL's left. Twenty-seven XL's. What does that say -- seventeen?" He turns the clipboard so Stéphane can read his ridiculous handwriting.

"Twelve," Stéphane says.

"That's a two? Are you kid -- whatever. Twelve larges. Nineteen mediums. And --" he looks over his shoulder, squinting at the shelves holding the remaining Camp Lutz shirts. "What do you think? Sixteen? Fifteen? Fifteen smalls. And -- hmm, seventeen extra smalls. Oh, look at that, we're done." Johnny tosses the clipboard and the pen back onto the counter. The pen clatters to the floor.

"_Johnny_." Stéphane frowns.

"_Stéphane_." He rests his hands on Stéphane's knees. When Stéphane keeps frowning, Johnny walks his fingers up his legs. "No one. Is going. To check."

It's a flimsy argument; they both know someone will check. Stéphane raises his eyebrows.

"Oh, shut up," Johnny says. His hands are almost all the way to Stéphane's hips now. "Just blame it on the language barrier."

"Our numbers are the same."

Now it's Johnny's turn to frown (fine, more than frown, but seriously, what the hell, does Stéphane really want to spend the afternoon in a musty store room double-checking the number of t-shirts? Because Johnny did not wait ten minutes and then follow him in here so he could help Stéphane count fucking t-shirts).

Of course, that's when Stéphane cracks up, kicking his feet and clapping gleefully, all "Oh, your _face_! You should see it!" and trying to mimic Johnny's apparently distraught pout.

"I hate you." Johnny pinches Stéphane's leg to make a point, the inside, so it'll hurt more. And he tries really hard to ignore the way Stéphane inhales sharply when he does it, the way he arches his back and then goes rigid everywhere for a split second.

But then he's laughing again, still mocking Johnny for taking him seriously, so Johnny does it again, a little harder. Hard enough to make Stéphane's hands clutch at the countertops. Enough to make him hiss. And then he's not laughing anymore. It's like the air in the room changes, or gets sucked out, or something, because all of a sudden Stéphane's grabbing at Johnny's shirt, fistfuls of fabric, and using them for leverage to pull himself forward. His mouth's already open when he pulls Johnny down towards him, one of his hands flat on the back of Johnny's neck. He hitches his legs around Johnny's waist and oh god, yes, this is exactly why Johnny followed him in here.

He loses track of time -- they're technically free all day, a kind of congrats on making it halfway through the summer reprieve -- and the next thing he knows, someone's walking down the hall. Stomping, actually, heavy, echoing footsteps. Johnny and Stéphane spring apart. They're both panting and flushed; Stéphane's fly is undone, his pants halfway down his hips, and Johnny doesn't need a mirror to know that his shirt's a wrinkled disaster, all misshapen at the collar where Stéphane had impatiently yanked it aside instead of waiting for Johnny to take it off.

"Uh, Stéphane?" It's Charlie. He doesn't knock on the door and judging from the weird, distant sound of his voice, he's standing kind of far away. He doesn't wait for Stéphane to respond, either, just yells, "We got a car. Everyone's going to town."

Stéphane's eyes light up and Johnny grins. The only thing better than having a full day of freedom is having a full day of freedom where they get to leave camp and do all the real person things Johnny's missed since being locked up here. Not that he doesn't love camp, but Lutz doesn't have stores, and town doesn't have screaming kids to keep from drowning.

"How exciting!" Stéphane says. "I cannot wait! Let me finish this inventory and I will be right there." That last part is clearly a lie, because as he says it he tugs on Johnny's belt loop, reeling him back in.

There's a long pause -- long enough for Stéphane to decide that it's okay to start making out again. He nips at Johnny's earlobe, teeth sharp enough that Johnny has to concentrate on not making any noise. Outside, Charlie coughs quietly and says, "And, uh, if you see Johnny, can you tell him?"

Stéphane makes a frustrated noise against Johnny's skin. Johnny presses his lips together to keep from laughing and leans back to make a face. "You'll tell me, right?" he mouths.

"Alright," Stéphane says again, nodding even though Charlie can't see him. He's just leaning in towards Johnny again when --

"And Jeremy, too?" Charlie asks. "And Brian?"

Stéphane nods again, faster; Johnny can tell his patience is wearing thin. He uses it to his advantage, tangles a hand in Stéphane's hair and uses it to tilt his head so he has better access to Stéphane's neck.

"Basically, if you see anyone --"

"Tell them, oui, je sais," Stéphane grits out, annoyed and then some. His fingers dig into Johnny's bicep and he tilts his head farther. Johnny takes the hint.

"We're leaving in like, ten minutes," Charlie adds.

"Alright," Stéphane says distractedly, and Charlie's persistence would be irritating if it weren't fucking hilarious how annoyed Stéphane already was. So all Johnny can do is push him further over the edge, scraping his teeth over his skin, trying to get him even more riled up.

"Seriously, Stéphane," Charlie says, "TEN MINUTES," because they all know Stéphane can get distracted by like, a fucking butterfly and no one wants to waste their time waiting for him, not when they've got a car and free time and a million better places to be. But not waiting for Stéphane means having to deal with his meltdown at being left behind and. It's a no-win situation, basically.

"OKAY," Stéphane yells back, finally snapping, and Johnny can't take it, he starts laughing as silently as he can, his mouth still pressed against Stéphane's neck.

Charlie leaves, his footsteps a lot quieter on the retreat, and Johnny tries to pull himself together, but his laughing's only making Stéphane angrier, which doesn't do anything to sober Johnny up.

"It's probably more like five minutes now," Johnny says once Charlie's left. He straightens up, tries to smooth the wrinkles out of shirt. "We should -- you know."

"They can wait." Stéphane reaches out, trying to catch Johnny's wrists, but Johnny moves even farther away.

"They'll leave without us," Johnny counters, because they totally will. Normally Johnny would be 100% against leaving Stéphane -- or anyone -- high and dry, but a lot of shady underground dealings go into acquiring a ride into town; they could fall through in the blink of a eye. There's a snowball's chance in hell everyone's risking that by sticking around for stragglers. "You know they will."

Stéphane narrows his eyes.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, you'll be pissy if we don't go."

Just because it's the truth doesn't mean Stéphane has to like it. "Fine," he says, hopping off the counter and pushing past Johnny, actually stomping because yes, he wants to go, but he is emphatically not happy about having to go now. When Johnny laughs at him, because hello, temper tantrum, he falls deeper into a snit, glaring at Johnny over his shoulder.

"I think you're spending too much time with ten year olds," Johnny says, when Stéphane sticks his tongue out.

"I'm not talking to you right now!" Stéphane calls back, storming down the hallway.

Johnny doesn't say, "Real mature!" even though he really, really wants to. He does laugh, though. Stéphane's footsteps get even louder.

**

Johnny's the last one to the front circle. Everyone's standing around Stojko's jeep, impatiently waiting.

"Today, Weir," Evan yells. Johnny flips him off and thinks about walking slower, just to piss him off, but then Tanith reaches through the front window and leans on the horn. He breaks into a jog

Everyone makes _finally_ noises and starts to squeeze in. Stéphane deliberately picks the side Johnny isn't on.

Yu-Na elbows Johnny sharply. "What's with him?"

Johnny watches Stéphane kick at the gravel and rolls his eyes. "Who knows," he says, busying himself with trying to fit into the tiny bit of space between Brian and the window. Yu-Na looks dubious, but she doesn't press it.

"Spend the winter learning to hotwire, Tan?" Meryl asks. They're so crammed in that Johnny can't even see where she's sitting. It's just arms and legs everywhere.

"Seriously, I mean, does Stojko even know we're taking his car?" Jeremy asks, and that sets of a whole slew of questions about how, exactly, Tanith ended up with the keys.

"I will leave you fuckers here," she threatens, "don't think I won't."

They're all quiet after that. At least, until the first hard left, which shifts them all sideways, everyone's elbows and knees slamming into each other hard enough to bruise.

**

Once they're in town, everyone kind of disperses. Pretty immediately, too. Shizuka, who definitely noticed Stéphane's weird mood, grabs his arm and says something about a pet store. Brian's right there with her, asking if she thinks they have puppies, and Stéphane perks up pretty quickly. He's not made of stone.

Johnny watches them walk off and contemplates going after them -- he likes animals, too -- but before he can, Tanith's there, clearing her throat pointedly.

"What?" He plays dumb, but that's never worked on her before, so.

"Something go wrong in inventory?" she asks, all raised eyebrows and wicked grin.

"I -- what? No," Johnny sputters, and she laughs. "How?" His gaze shifts to Charlie, who's blushing and cracking up at the same time. Well that explains why he never even tried to open the door. Why he sounded like he was standing five feet away, just in case. "CHARLES."

"Oh, please," Tanith cuts in, "because you two doing it all over camp wasn't the first clue?"

Johnny's first instinct is to deny it. He knows it'd be useless though. "Yeah. Well. You're one to talk," he says instead, cutting a pointed glance from Tanith to Charlie and then back again.

She rolls her eyes and smacks him on the shoulder. "Be nice."

Johnny looks away, into the sun. He wants to ask who else knows, but he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

"Okay, well. We're gonna go," Charlie says. He claps Johnny on the shoulder lightly. "See you around?"

"Yeah, see ya," Johnny says.

**

He tries to put on a happy face, because he fucking loves shopping and this is the only chance he'll get all summer, but it's hard. He can't stop thinking about... well, a lot of things. Too many serious thoughts for a day that's supposed to be fun and relaxing.

He should probably go find Stéphane and help him hug a kitten or whatever, but he doesn't, he just keeps listlessly wandering through the shops, halfheartedly trying on sunglasses and wondering what happens now. He and Stéphane don't even talk about this thing they've got going on. Are things going to change if everybody knows? After he was finally settling into the "it's just us" mentality of it all?

Johnny looks up from the display of headbands -- they're all boring -- trying to decide if there's anything else worth checking out in the store and notices Evan's standing like five feet away, his back to Johnny. He's weighing his options -- sneaking out and spend the rest of the day wandering the streets before inevitably caving and getting ice cream by himself like a total lamer is winning by a landslide -- when Evan turns around and notices him.

"Uh, hey," he says, waving stiffly, like he's not entirely sure how his arm works.

"Hello, Evan," Johnny says. "Did you get lost?"

"What? No." He puts something back on the display table and Johnny takes a step closer and laughs.

"Dressing up like Fred from Scooby-Doo, are we?" he asks, snagging the ascot and waving it in Evan's face. It's heinous and douchey and it makes perfect sense, in a godawful, Evan way.

"Shut up." Evan bats it aside. "Besides, like that's any worse than your... whatever-you-call-thems."

"Headbands," Johnny supplies. "And it is, it's so much worse." He goes back over to the display and tries one on, to prove his point. "Ascot: douchey. Headband: fantastic," he says to the mirror, but he can see in the reflection Evan's not really paying attention.

Johnny sighs and puts the headband back. It's not even that fantastic, either. This day is turning out so crappy. He straightens all the headbands on the display, and then sets to work rearranging the rings that are on the table, too.

"Hey," Evan says suddenly. He's standing closer than Johnny remembers. "Uh, are you okay?"

Johnny snorts. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. You've been weird ever since the camping trip."

Johnny puts a hand to his heart, touched. "That's so kind of you to say, Evan," he says sarcastically, stepping around Evan and towards the door. "I really appreciate it."

Evan follows him outside; he's got that familiar annoyed look on his face. "I was just -- because I -- we -- because nothing happened," he says, frustrated.

Johnny stops walking. Christ, this is not a conversation he wants to have. Ever. "I know nothing happened, Evan," he says slowly, "I was there."

"Well I just didn't want you to feel uncomfortable around me." Evan crosses his arms over his chest, awkward and defensive at the same time, and that's enough to make something inside Johnny start to start to come undone.

"Oh my god, newsflash, Evan: not everything is about you," he spits out, storming away.

Of fucking course, Evan follows, like a golden fucking retriever. And his stupid long legs mean it's not even hard for him to keep up.

"Oh," Evan says, "it's the Stéphane thing, isn't it?"

Johnny stops again, abruptly enough that Evan has to actually swing back around. Evan nods knowingly, like he understands or some shit, and Johnny feels like he's trapped in some fucked-up dream where he has to put up with Evan and Stéphane is cranky and no one gets off, ever.

It's more of a nightmare, actually.

"What?" Johnny asks.

"It's about the --"

"No, I heard you the first time, I just -- how do you know about that?"

Evan looks at Johnny like he's fucking stupid. "Uh, I have eyes? And ears? And have been at camp all summer? It's been like five weeks, dude, come on."

Johnny needs to sit down.

"Are you okay?" Evan asks after like, five minutes of Johnny staring at the pavement. He sits next to him on the curb.

There are so many things running through Johnny's head that he's dizzy with it, but the first thing that comes out is, "If you knew, then why --"

"I didn't," Evan says. "Nothing happened."

"Right." Johnny shakes his head, clearing it. "Right."

He thinks that's a cop-out, that it's bullshit and a dick move and so, so many things, but the worst part is that it's always a two-way street, and that's the part he can't stop thinking about right now.

"I think -- I mean, I was confused," Johnny says eventually, answering the question Evan didn't ask. "I still am, sometimes. I just -- I don't know what's going on. I keep trying to roll with it, but..."

Maybe I'm not cut out for casual flings, he thinks. He doesn't say that part out loud.

"Um, maybe you should talk to someone else? Like Tanith? Or I don't know." Evan sounds panicky.

"Yeah, never mind. Sorry." Johnny shuts up. He doesn't blame Evan for not wanting to have this conversation. He doesn't want to have it, either.

Evan wanders away after not too long, and then it's just Johnny, sitting on the curb with his thoughts. It isn't pretty. It's depressing.

"Johnny, you gotta check this out." Johnny looks up and Evan's across the street, leaning against some store window, waving him over. He goes; sitting on the side of the road is too pathetic an alternative.

Turns out, it's this ridiculous shirt with weird, feathery cuffs.

"That is the ugliest fucking shirt I have ever seen," Johnny says. Evan laughs and goes inside. The only reason Johnny follows is because if Evan tries it on, he's going to take a picture and use it as blackmail for the rest of his life.

Evan doesn't try it on, he just wanders through the store, touching shit, getting his fingerprints all over everything. But he also doesn't say much to Johnny, so. It could be worse.

They're both leaning over opposite sides of a sunglasses case when Evan clears his throat and says, "Uh, for what it's worth, if you want to figure it out, I mean -- if you want a plan." Johnny looks up, but Evan keeps staring at the sunglasses. "Like, step one: you like Stéphane."

He looks up then, and when Johnny nods -- the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? -- he nods back and says, "Okay, that's it. There is no step two."

"What the fuck, that isn't a plan," Johnny says. "And it's NOT THAT SIMPLE."

Evan blinks at him. "Isn't it, though?"

Johnny grits his teeth. Why do people keep assuming everything is cut and dry?

"Never mind, never mind," Evan says, holding up his hands. He looks like he's sorry he brought it up.

"Hey," Evan says a few minutes later. His voice is softer, careful, like he's worried he might set Johnny off again. "How do these look?"

Johnny turns around and stares at Evan wearing a ridiculous pair of sunglasses. "Like you're about to go to a coke party on a yacht."

It startles a laugh out of Evan. "I kind of like them," he says, smiling at his reflection in one of the tiny mirrors.

"You would," Johnny says, rolling his eyes when Evan shoots finger guns at his reflection.

**

Stéphane's in a better mood by the time they all reconvene at the car, and weirdly, Johnny is, too.

"There were no dogs," Stéphane says sadly, sliding into the backseat. He tugs Johnny down on his lap. "But! I did hold a baby chinchilla! And I had ice cream! And you?"

Johnny shifts to the side so Ben can squeeze past them. "It was good. Kind of boring." He moves over some more, ends up pressed all against Stéphane's side, his nose almost brushing Stéphane's temple. He pretends he doesn't see Tanith watching them in the rear-view mirror. "Could've been better."

Stéphane gets what Johnny isn't saying, a slow smile spreading across his face. The car jerks into motion, jostling everybody. Johnny ducks his head and kisses Stéphane's shoulder, his shirt warm from the sun. Step one, he thinks.

**day thirty-two**

"There is no step two." Johnny fucking hates Evan. Because the more he thinks about it (which has been, oh, all the effing time lately), the more sense it makes, and -- what? Evan is not supposed to make sense. Evan is not supposed to be right. Evan is not supposed to be fun to hang out with in stores, or on camping trips, or anywhere.

Nothing in Johnny's life makes sense anymore.

**day thirty-five**

Things have been better since the trip into town, though. Johnny's happy and relaxed and kind of waiting for the other shoe to fall, honestly, but it hasn't yet. It might not at all. Both options make him feel vaguely claustrophobic, but hey, he's trying not to dwell on those things. And for the most part, it's totally working.

He's in the stables, prepping for his afternoon ride with Edge 2, when someone knocks on one of the wood pillars. It's Stéphane.

"Hey?" Johnny doesn't mean to sound so confused, because it's not like he isn't happy to see him, but, "Aren't you supposed to be on kitchen duty?"

Stéphane shrugs. "I traded with Brian."

Okay, now Johnny's even more confused. Brian would rather shoot himself in the face than be stuck washing dishes with a bunch of ten year olds. There's no way he'd agree to trade out of the goodness of his heart. "What did he do?"

Stéphane grins, that evil one he has that reminds Johnny he never wants to get on his bad side. "I think that you mean 'who,'" he says.

Johnny doesn't need a mirror to know his eyes are the size of saucers. "Who?" he asks, excited. "Wait! I don't want to know. Yes, I do."

Stéphane cracks up and mimes locking up his lips. He tosses the imaginary key over his shoulder.

"Well now I really want to know," Johnny says, even though he's still not entirely sure he does. Stéphane presses his lips together firmly and tries to look innocent. Shit, Johnny _really_ wants to know. He tries pouting, but that doesn't work. He tries the saddest eyes he can muster, and they don't work either. Stéphane keeps holding up his hands like there's nothing he can do about it, like Brian's virtue is some fucking state secret. "Come onnnn."

When Stéphane shakes his head for the fiftieth time, Johnny leans in super-close, until Stéphane has to take a step backwards, and then another, and then there's nowhere else to go and he's stuck between Johnny and the wall. Johnny moves in even closer, even though he's got bits of hay stuck on him and probably smells rank as hell from being in the stables in the heat of the day. Stéphane doesn't seem to mind; he leans back against the wall, waiting almost comfortably, all dark eyes and parted lips and canted hips, until Johnny fits his fingers into the ridges of Stéphane's ribcage. And _then_ Stéphane goes tense.

"Hmmm." Johnny twitches his fingers, not quite tickling yet. Stéphane squirms anyway, but there's nowhere for him to go. "Okay, so we know it's not Tanith -- it's not Tanith, right?" Stéphane's all textbook innocence so Johnny leans in, his mouth right by Stéphane's ear. "Hmm," he says again, thinking. He fights back a grin when Stéphane shivers. First step: break them. Second step: answers.

Except Stéphane is being uncharacteristically stoic, even when Johnny tries to distract him by making out. Johnny keeps kissing him and naming names -- there's a limited supply, he'll probably get it at some point, right? -- and trying to judge by Stéphane's breathing if he's right or not, all while Stéphane's pulling him closer, trying to get Johnny to move his hips in some sort of rhythm. He groans low in his throat, clearly annoyed, when Johnny refuses to cooperate. But Stéphane does not get any rewards until he deserves them. Positive reinforcement -- it's like, Psych 101.

Johnny runs his tongue along Stéphane's lower lip and then moves back a fraction so he can see Stéphane's reaction when he guesses, "Yu-Na?"

Stéphane -- apparently at his breaking point, annoyance-wise, at least -- sighs, rolls his eyes and shoves Johnny back, just enough to put physical space between their torsos.

"You ask too many questions," he says. He's not even looking at Johnny right now, his gaze is focused somewhere behind him, and he's taking deep breaths. Johnny wonders if that means he was right. Stéphane refocuses his vision on Johnny. "And now you have wasted all our time, which is a shame because I came up here to..."

He trails off, distracted by whatever it is over Johnny's shoulder.

Johnny squeezes his side. "To what?"

Stéphane look back to Johnny and smiles. "To... chat," he lies, sliding his hand down all the way down Johnny's chest, curling his fingers so they're tucked into his waistband, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin there. Johnny's hips jerk, just a little, but it's enough to make Stéphane chuckle. He moves his hand again, further in, fingertips almost there, and then, just as quick as it happens, his hand's gone and he's sliding out from between Johnny and the wall. Johnny just stands there, open-mouthed and unfuckingcomfortable.

Stéphane laughs again, louder this time, and leans up to kiss Johnny quick, and then there are kids yelling, coming running up the path, seconds from spilling into the barn, and Johnny can't even think straight. Fuck.

"I kind of hate you right now," he says.

"Yes, yes," Stéphane laughs, and then he's waving to Jeremy and all the the kids from Edge 2.

"_Hello_, Stéphane," Jeremy says. He's making a face, looking back and forth between Johnny and Stéphane like he's about to crack up laughing. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Don't," Johnny says. "Just. Don't."

And then Jeremy _is_ laughing, so hard, and Johnny hates him, too. He used to have the upper hand all the time. And then Stéphane came along and knocked everything to hell.

"I hope you fall off your horse," he says to Jeremy, who just keeps laughing.

Stéphane clucks his tongue. "Be nice," he says, patting Johnny's hip.

"Don't start with me --"

"Oh god," Jeremy says quietly.

Johnny rolls his eyes. "Don't think I forgot," he says to Stéphane. "I will find out. I have ways of making you talk."

Stéphane laughs and shakes his head, mimes zipping his lips.

"Seriously," Jeremy says, even though Stéphane's already walking away, "there are other people here."

"He was by himself, wasn't he? HE WAS ALONE THE WHOLE TIME," Johnny yells.

"I WILL TAKE IT WITH ME TO THE GRAVEYARD," Stéphane yells back. Johnny would flip him off, but there are kids around and he really doesn't want to have to sit through Mr. H's Appropriate Language To Use Around Campers lecture again.

**day thirty-six**

"Brian! Brian! Brian!"

Johnny rolls over on the dock, onto his stomach. "They won't stop, no matter how hard you ignore them," he says. Thirteen year old girls are like those pelicans in _Finding Nemo_, chirpy and relentless.

Brian rolls his eyes. Well, he's wearing sunglasses, so Johnny can't see him roll them, but he's pretty sure Brian does it. And then he tilts his head toward the girls. "Yes?"

Johnny watches the girls giggle and nudge each other, until the bravest one pushes forward so she can rest her arms on the dock, lifting herself a little higher out of the water. "Do you have a giiiiiirlfriend?"

Johnny presses his face into his towel so they don't see him laugh. They're so predictable. Kind of adorable, but predictable. He turns back in time to see Brian peer at them over his sunglasses. He grins and says, "No," and then laughs when they all squeal and fall all over each other.

Once they're finally gone, splashing and shrieking, distracted by boys their own age, Johnny flips onto his back so he can squint at Brian. He says, "_Really_?" He hopes that if he sounds like he knows something, Brian will accidentally tell him who the fuck Stéphane caught him with, because for some reason, Stéphane's been shockingly tight-lipped about it. That probably means it's even better than Johnny can imagine. Or worse, who knows. Either way, it's driving Johnny insane, not knowing.

Unfortunately, Brian just smirks.

"I am going to shove you into the lake," Johnny says, annoyed that his plan didn't work. It only makes Brian smirk fucking harder, like he knows exactly what Johnny's trying to do. Johnny kicks at him. "Asshole."

"And you?" Brian asks, lazily twirling his whistle around his fingers.

"No, Brian, I do not have a girlfriend."

Brian laughs and pats Johnny's foot. "Oui, oui, sémantique," he says, like he doesn't believe him for a second.

**day thirty-seven**

It's pretty much a combination of sheer will and the grace of god that gets Johnny to Stéphane's without getting hit, and even then he ends up army crawling through Stéphane's cabin door and yelling "TRUCE, TRUCE" the second he gets inside so no one shoots him.

"I could still kill you," Stéphane says, smiling down at Johnny, Nerf gun in his hand. He's got a couple rounds of darts slung across his chest like a sash and a second gun stuck into the waistband of his pants. He's looming there and for a second Johnny's mind goes completely blank.

"But I said truce," he says eventually, "So that would be like, in violation of the Geneva Convention, wouldn't it?"

Stéphane shrugs, unsure. He tosses his gun onto his bed and holds out his hands to pull Johnny to his feet. "What is so important you called a truce?"

Johnny grins. "I figured we could, you know. Sneak away for a little while."

Stéphane chews on his lip, considering.

"Come on," Johnny says, "Nobody will notice we're missing."

It's true -- the All-Camp War has only been waging for a few hours and already it's like living in a _Die Hard_ movie. As long as they're back by dinner, literally no one will notice. Stéphane looks out the window and watches as some of Evan's campers lead a siege on the cabin across the way. They look like a group of trained Navy Seals, with hand signals and precision tactics; they've probably been training for this moment all summer. They're they complete opposite of Johnny's campers, who last he heard, were planning to hide in the trees and shoot people as they walk underneath. Who needs hand signals when you've got guerrilla tactics, right?

"We should go now, if we are going," Stéphane says, turning back. He's right -- Evan's campers are all inside now, they need to go before they come back out.

"Yeah, let's go," Johnny says. He waits for Stéphane to pick up his gun before carefully opens the door. It looks clear. "Move out."

**

They have one almost run-in with Meryl and Tanith's cabins, who apparently have formed an alliance and taken control of the field house. Johnny and Stéphane crouch behind a row of shrubs and listen while a group of girls attacks an unsuspecting pair of boys.

"Oh my god, are they wearing war paint?" Johnny hisses, watching the girls mow down their enemies.

"Go, go, go," Stéphane whispers. Johnny takes off running.

**

The clearing in the woods behind the riflery is out of the way enough that no one ever really goes there.

"We should've brought a blanket," Johnny says when Stéphane pulls him down to the ground. It's a little late now, though, and besides, Stéphane doesn't seem to mind the grass. He chucks his ammo and guns and shirt to the side and waits for Johnny to do the same, and then he's pulling Johnny down on top of him, kissing him like he's been missing him for months. Johnny kisses back just as desperately, leaning into the warm planes of Stéphane's body, losing himself the hot, wet slide of his tongue, in Stéphane's nails dragging along his back, in all of it.

Except there's a part of him that's stupidly distracted. He keeps hearing Brian's voice in his head, all "Semantics, semantics," and -- Jesus, is he being such a fucking headcase? He thought he was getting past this. Why can't he be relaxed about it, more like Evan and oh holy mother of god, did he seriously just think that?

"What's wrong?" Stéphane frowns and puts some space between them.

Johnny shakes his head. "Nothing. I think the fresh air is making me crazy?"

"You are always crazy. It's why I like you," he adds when Johnny pouts. He wraps his arms around Johnny's middle and buries his face in Johnny's shoulder. Johnny smiles and gets that familiar twisty feeling in his gut, but he starts to feel better, too.

"Hey, wait a minute," Johnny says, "_I'm_ crazy? Pot," he pokes a finger into Stéphane's sternum and then points to himself, "Kettle."

Stéphane nods solemnly. "Ah, but that is why you like me."

"No. I like you in spite of it," he argues, flopping sideways onto the grass. The sappy-ass grin plastered across his face is not helping him make his case. When he looks over, Stéphane's face is ridiculous, all smiling and open and happy, and Johnny isn't even sure why he does it, but it's like he can't stop it from happening, he just blurts out, "Evan almost kissed me. Or, well, I -- yeah. On the camping trip."

It doesn't feel like a weight lifting off his chest. It doesn't feel like anything at all. This is not -- this is not what he had in mind when he suggested they sneak away. Fuck.

Stéphane is quiet. Johnny takes a deep breath, and then another. He expects Stéphane to lose it. He knows he would, if the situation were reversed. And it's not like Stéphane doesn't have a tendency to overreact to things all the fucking time, either. So really, Johnny's right to brace for impact. It's weird when it never comes.

He reaches out and catches Stéphane's hand. "I didn't, though. Kiss him."

Stéphane exhales carefully and then he shrugs, like it's no big deal, but it kind of is. At least, it feels like one to Johnny. And he really wants him to understand that.

"I didn't," Johnny says again, quieter this time.

Stéphane nods. "Okay," he says, turning his face to look at Johnny. "Good." And then he's rolling over, rolling until he's on top of Johnny pressing him into the ground. "Good," he repeats, against Johnny's lips, his hands warm on Johnny's sides. When Stéphane kisses him, it's slower than before, deeper, until Johnny's dizzy with it. Stéphane is solid and warm on top of him, and Johnny can feel him hard against his hip. When Johnny thrusts up shallowly, teasing, Stéphane grinds down and bites Johnny's lip in retaliation.

Johnny groans and flips them over, bracing himself over Stéphane. Stéphane reaches up and pulls a leaf out of Johnny's hair, laughing, and then he leans up and kisses Johnny again, his hand on the back of Johnny's neck pulling him back down. Johnny goes with it for a minute, and then he slowly kisses a path down Stéphane's body, until Stéphane is making needy, panting noises, pushing at Johnny's shoulder while Johnny takes his sweet time unbuttoning Stéphane's pants. He laughs when Stéphane tries to kick them all the way off, which makes Stéphane frown. He scrapes his teeth over Stéphane's hipbone, a silent apology that raises goosebumps all over Stéphane's skin.

He fists Stéphane's cock, runs his thumb along the underside just to hear the desperate sound Stéphane makes. He's still grinning when he takes his dick in his mouth and does the exact same thing, only with his tongue this time, and Stéphane makes the same sound again.

**

Johnny's still wrapped up in his very own post-orgasm glow when Stéphane shoots him square in the chest.

"It's only fair," he says when Johnny glares at him. He's right, is the bitch of it. Still.

"That's not fair at all."

"Is this not love and war?" Stéphane smiles a fucking blinding smile that makes Johnny's chest hurt.

"Cheater," Johnny grumbles. Stéphane laughs and crawls into Johnny's lap, kissing him sweetly. Johnny's chest hurts a little more. It's probably from the dart.

**

The first thing they do when they get back to camp -- or rather, the first thing Stéphane does -- is shoot Evan in the back of the head.

"OW," Evan yells, turning around and glaring. "What the hell?"

Stéphane doesn't say anything, but he's grinning like a motherfucker as he reloads his gun. _There's_ the angry reaction Johnny was bracing for earlier. Evan stands there, rubbing the back of his head and fuming, like he expects an answer. Like he's actually pissed he got shot. Johnny rolls his eyes, because of course Evan was in it to win it. Of course he was.

"Seriously, what the hell?"

"You're dead," Stéphane says simply, and then he leaves, takes off running, right towards the middle of camp. Back into battle.

Johnny watches him go and then he shrugs at Evan. "He got me, too," he says, his hand over his heart.

Evan makes a face. "Low blow."

"I deserved it." He doesn't think Evan really gets it, why Stéphane's shooting people at point-blank range, but Evan never really was that quick on the uptake. Whatever, it's not even Evan's business to get, really, so it doesn't matter.

They stand there, awkwardly silent, until Evan says, "So. You guys were, uh --"

Johnny raises an eyebrow because does Evan really want to finish that thought? Really?

"-- uh, never mind," Evan says, going a little red under his collar.

In the distance there's a shout, and the muffled sound of multiple guns going off.

"Is he going to cry if he gets shot?" Evan asks.

Johnny thinks of last year's melodramatic death scene, Stéphane sprawled on the ground, sobbing, three red welts on his arm from Nerf darts. He tries not to laugh.

"Probably," he says, like it doesn't happen every year.

**day forty-three**

Johnny wakes up when something digs into his stomach. The sun is hot and bright and --

"Son of a -- Stéphane!" He starts prodding Stéphane's shoulder, trying to wake him up. They're probably already late for the staff meeting. Fuck. He never should have trusted Stéphane to wake them up in time for something. "Seriously, come on."

Stéphane stretches comfortably, arches his back and presses his face into Johnny's t-shirt. He can feel Stéphane breathing in, can feel the way his muscles all start to relax again. Something warm pools low in Johnny's stomach; he closes his eyes and starts to sink back into the ground comfortably. Crap. They cannot fall back asleep, not right now.

Johnny starts to move around, trying to wriggle out from under him, and Stéphane grumbles his disapproval. Johnny can feel the vibrations of it all through his chest. It's like they go straight to his dick, and suddenly he's acutely aware of how warm Stéphane is, how solid, how good he smells, how one of his legs is thrown over Johnny's, everything. He tries shoving Stéphane off him, says, "Stéphane, seriously, we have to go," but it's like Stéphane suddenly weighs a metric ton. He's fucking unmovable, his limbs snaking around and under Johnny, holding tighter the more Johnny struggles.

Eventually Johnny gives up. He goes still, relaxing into the grass -- seriously, the fucking grass. The next time Stéphane pets his hair and tells him he looks tired, he should rest for a minute, don't worry, I'll wake you up, well --okay, Johnny will probably fall for it again, because it feels kind of amazing, but he'll be pissed when he wakes up late and covered in grass stains -- and lets Stéphane sprawl on top of him for a minute.

And that's when he realizes Stéphane is laughing.

"You're such a jackass," he says, rolling so Stéphane dumps onto the ground. He stands up, brushing his clothes off, trying to look less rumpled. "If we get yelled at I'm going to set all your stupid cardigans on fire."

"You would not dare," Stéphane says, but he scrambles to his feet anyway, grabbing Johnny's wrist and pulling him along, like Johnny was the one dragging his feet.

Johnny doesn't know how long they're walking before he realizes Stéphane is holding his hand, that their fingers are all interlaced. He must slow down or something, because Stéphane tugs his hand -- their hands, whatever -- to urge him along. He smiles at Johnny, blinding, the same way the sun was when Johnny woke up, and for a second he feels warm all over, the memory of Stéphane tucked up against him fresh in his mind, and then Stéphane's back to talking about how cardigans are a wardrobe staple or some nonsense, gesturing wildly so that their joined hands flail around in the air.

It's not that funny, but Johnny laughs anyway. Stéphane seems to take that as his cue to throw his arms around Johnny, wrapping him in a hug while they're still trying to walk. He mostly ends up hanging on Johnny's side while Johnny tries to shake him off. They're both laughing, Stéphane's chest all warm and rumbling along Johnny's side, and when Johnny turns to look at him to tell him to get the fuck off, it's overwhelming how badly he just wants to kiss him.

He leans down and does it. It's one of those things that he means to be quick, but it's not. His hand that isn't caught between them curves along Stéphane's jaw.

Stéphane makes this funny, startled sound, and when Johnny pulls back he looks a little... something that Johnny doesn't recognize, but only for a second and then he's smiling again.

"Now who is making us late?" he asks. "If we are yelled at, I will burn all your furs."

"Don't even -- why would you -- that's not even funny." Stéphane laughs at him. "Seriously, my heart _stopped_," Johnny says, and then he has to hurry to catch up because Stéphane's already ten feet in front of him.

**

They're not late to the meeting -- at least, not technically -- but they're some of the last ones there, which makes it hard to find a place to sit. They end up squished in with Brian at a table in the back; there's barely enough room for one person, but whatever. Having the rafting trip staff meeting in Mr. H's office is a stupid idea, but it happens every year. Johnny suspects Mr. H is allergic to change.

But whatever. Being cramped isn't _that_ horrible. Stéphane borrows some paper from Brian while Johnny finds them pens.

"Good job coming prepared, guys," Sasha says. Johnny smiles and flips her off and gets Stéphane's elbow in his side in response.

"Ow," he says, annoyed. "What the hell?" He frowns at Stéphane and then notices Mr. H in the doorway. Oh. "Thanks," he whispers.

Stéphane rolls his eyes. Johnny elbows him playfully and tries to look like he's paying attention to Mr. H's dramatic reading of the itinerary. It's neither dramatic nor interesting.

He wishes he was still asleep. It's not that he's exhausted or anything -- it's normal camp levels of sleep deprivation, maybe a little worse because of all the time he ends up sneaking out with Stéphane, but nothing ridiculous -- it's just. He was really comfortable before, the sun and the grass and Stéphane and everything.

He shifts in his seat so he's leaning against Stéphane a little bit. He thinks about slumping down so he can rest his head on Stéphane's shoulder, but he doesn't. There's too many people around and besides, he'd probably get yelled at anyway. Mr. H drones on about behavior in the hotel -- don't let the kids switch rooms, don't let them order room service, make sure non one jumps from the balcony into the pool, blah blah blah. Johnny's pretty sure can feel himself aging, one cell at a time.

He flinches when Stéphane pats his leg, hand curling around Johnny's thigh. Johnny shoots him a look because oh my god, seriously? In a room full of people? Brian is _right there_, and then he realizes Stéphane's pointing to his paper while trying really hard not to laugh.

Johnny presses his lips together and leans closer, so he can read what Stéphane wrote.

_Ça va?_

Johnny shrugs and reaches over so he can write, _Bored_.

Stéphane pats his thigh again, lower this time, out of the danger zone. He thinks for a minute, tapping the end of his pen on the paper. And then he draws the gallows for hangman.

Brian cracks up when he sees _ WAN_ _O D_E and Stéphane's obvious distress over the two-legs-from-hanged stick figure he's trying to save. He leans over and scrawls an I in the margin. Johnny grins and adds the letters to the puzzle.

Everything goes by a little quicker after that. At least, until Mr. H gets a phone call. He ends up doing this ridiculous chicken dance thing because he obviously doesn't want to take the call with everyone in the room, but he doesn't want to send them out, and then he can't figure out how to put the phone on hold and transfer the call to a different phone. It takes three people to calm him down and get him set up elsewhere.

"I'll be right back," he says to them as he's leaving. "I swear. Don't go anywhere."

"Ten minutes," Ben says as soon as he's gone.

Tanith makes a face. "Are you kidding me? It'll take him five just to figure out how to answer the new phone. Twenty, easy."

"I want to dieeee," Johnny whines, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"We know." Brian points to the hangman. Stéphane's drawn a happy face on the guy, presumably because he's not dead. Johnny drops his forehead to the table and sighs loudly. This really is fucking boring. Why do they have to be trapped in here for a million years? It's not like the trip's any different from all the other years. Three days, two nights, six years on a bus, three years paddling down a river. It's not that complicated. Not that fun, either, but whatever.

Stéphane drapes himself over Johnny's back, his chin digging into Johnny's shoulderblade.

"This is the worst," Johnny says.

He's mostly talking to Stéphane, but Sasha's the one who says, "Seriously. I'm ready to slit my wrists with this notebook."

And just like that, everyone's complaining about how fucking horrible the meeting is, whining about not wanting to go on the trip, you name it. Stéphane stays quiet.

"I mean, can't we just put a couple boats in the lake and call it whitewater rafting?" Jeremy asks. "It would be a thousand times better."

They all laugh, because seriously. It would.

"I don't get it," Adam says, twisting around so he can look at everyone. He'd been the only one listening when Mr. H was talking -- well, him and the rest of the CITs. The innocence of youth, Johnny figures. "Aren't you guys excited?"

"Of course we are," Stéphane says, completely serious. "It will be fun! Last year was magnificent!" He sits up and pokes Johnny in the side. "Right? It was good times."

There's dead silence in the room. Everyone's faces look the exact same, a mix of horror and something akin to nausea as they remember last year's trip, where it rained the entire time and the bus got a flat tire and by the time they got to the river there were no rapids so they actually had to paddle the fucking rafts down the fucking river for _miles_.

Stéphane pokes Johnny again. "It was so fun, right?"

"No," Johnny says. Brian snorts and says something in French that Johnny doesn't understand. Stéphane frowns.

"What? No, it was fun!" he says. "Tell them it was fun!" He's flapping his arms a little, an edge in his voice like he's about to start crying. Johnny's torn between feeling guilty and laughing at him.

"It was a blast," Johnny says flatly. Everyone cracks up except Stéphane, who crosses his arms over his chest and kicks at the floor.

He's still pouting when Mr. H comes back and starts talking about god knows what. The importance of wearing a helmet in a rapids-less river. How to paddle. Something boring. Johnny watches Stéphane stare angrily at the table. He thinks about apologizing for teasing him, but doesn't. He wasn't being mean. That trip really sucked.

Except Stéphane doesn't stop pouting and melodramatic or not, it's depressing as fuck to look at. Johnny leans over, nudges him with his shoulder. At first Stéphane twists away, but Johnny follows with his upper body, leaning until Stéphane pushes back. Johnny makes a face at him and he makes one back, annoyed, but Johnny keeps at it until he can see the grin tugging at the corners of Stéphane's mouth. He bumps Stéphane's shoulder again. This time Stéphane pushes back, gently. When Johnny looks over, he's kind of smiling.

Mr. H has a map out, so they can all see the exact route the buses will be taking. In case one of them gets separated and has to walk? It doesn't make any sense, but whatever. Johnny draws on the paper, just random doodles around the forgotten games of hangman.

Stéphane's the one who leans over and turns everything into hearts.

**

When Johnny gets back to his cabin and starts to pack, he tucks the paper into the side pocket of his suitcase. He doesn't know why. It's just a convenient place to store it.

 

**day forty-five**

Apparently he should've paid more attention during the meeting, because somehow he got signed up for monitoring the bus loading the morning of the trip at ass o'clock. It's dark out still, is how early it is, and cold and Johnny's sweatshirt is already on the bus, staking claim on his seat.

And, okay, it could be worse, because sure it's early as fuck, but Stéphane's stuck out here, too, and since there's not any luggage to load yet all they're really doing is making out sleepily, leaning against the side of the bus in the dark. Stéphane didn't bother to shave and every time his stubble rasps against Johnny's skin, it wakes him up a little more. He cups his hand along Stéphane's jaw just to feel the scrape of it against his palm.

Stéphane sighs into his mouth and Johnny sags forward, leaning more heavily against Stéphane. It's so early. He's so tired. He slides his hand down Stéphane's neck, winds his other arm around Stéphane's waist. His fingers dip into Stéphane's waistband and Stéphane sort of arches forward, like an automatic response that his body's too lazy to fully commit to.

"Hey, guys? Oh, shit, sorry."

Johnny tries to jump backwards, but Stéphane's still got his hands all tangled in Johnny's shirt and belt loops and all that happens is he flails in place while Meryl laughs. Johnny's heart feels like it's going a hundred miles an hour all of a sudden and knows he's turning red. He's pretty sure Stéphane's the same way right now; Johnny can feel his skin going hot where it's buried against his neck. He wishes Stéphane's teeth weren't right near his collarbone. He wishes Meryl would go away.

"Uh, I didn't see anything?" Meryl lies. She's still kind of laughing. "Oh god, I'm sorry! I just -- campers? Soon?"

Johnny thinks he hears her mutter something about not knowing why she was expecting anything else as she walks away, but he's not sure. When she's gone and Stéphane finally gets his face out of Johnny's throat he's got a total deer-in-headlights look, like he can't quite figure out what just happened. Johnny feels the same way. He wants to laugh, but he's too stunned. It's just -- Meryl barely flinched. Laughed, sure, and apologized a million times, but.

He doesn't know. It's not like he'd _want_ her to freak out, or overreact, so he doesn't know. It's just not what he was expecting. It never is, lately.

"I guess it is time to go." Stéphane kisses the corner of Johnny's mouth. Johnny nods absently, turns his head to kiss him fully. One more for the road. That's a thing, right?

**

There are more people there to help load all the shit onto the buses, thankfully. Johnny had been wondering how just the two of them were supposed to load a camp's worth of luggage.

The only problem is they sent Adam to help and apparently not only is he excited for the trip, but he's also a morning person. Even Meryl is shooting him looks like she's thinking about setting his hair on fire if he doesn't stop bouncing around.

"Can we leave him here?" Johnny says quietly as he chucks another bag into the compartment.

Evan frowns. "No," he says, like the killjoy that he is. Behind them, Adam laughs loudly at something. Evan tilts his head and says, "Maybe we could tie him to the roof?" and Johnny laughs genuinely.

"That's funny," he says, smiling. Evan smiles back. He looks as tired as Johnny feels.

Stéphane cuts in front of them, crouching low to the ground so he can cram a couple duffels inside. Johnny leans forward and throws a smaller bag in and when he stands up, he rests his hand on Stéphane's neck, right at the nape. When Stéphane stands up and turns around, Johnny's hand slides down his shirt -- he can feel all the bumps in Stéphane's spine -- and ends up at the small of his back, so his arm's half-curled around Stéphane's waist. Stéphane shifts his weight sideways, leaning into Johnny, turning it into an almost-hug. He yawns, pressing his face into Johnny's shoulder instead of covering his mouth.

It makes Johnny yawn, too. When he opens his eyes, Meryl's grinning at them. Johnny blinks and she's loading luggage again, not paying any attention to them at all. No one is.

**

The buses stop at some rest stop halfway through the trip so they can gas up and use the bathrooms and let everyone run around for a half hour so they don't get whatever the bus equivalent of cabin fever is.

"Don't get lost," Johnny says to his kids. "Stay in this area here, where I can see you."

They nod and disperse and Johnny stretches out on top of a picnic table so he can get some sun. It's pretty nice. He can see Stéphane in the distance, dancing around in a circle with a bunch of the younger girls with what looks like a halo of dandelions on his head. Who knows where the fuck he found flowers.

"Hey."

Johnny turns his head in time to see Evan sit down at the table. He's by Johnny's knees, facing away, his long-ass arms draped all the way across the tabletop.

"Hello, Evan."

"Do you think they'd notice if I didn't get back on the bus?" Johnny laughs and Evan says, "Seriously. Because I think I'm going to have that stupid song stuck in my head forever."

"What song?" Johnny asks. And then he starts to sing it, laughing when Evan claps his hands over his ears and curls in on himself.

"You're such a jerk," Evan says when Johnny's done. Johnny sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes. He ignores the part where he just got the song re-stuck in his own head, too.

Evan doesn't say anything else so Johnny closes his eyes and turns his face back to the sun. It's nice and quiet and then all of a sudden Evan says, "So. How are things going?"

And it's not what he says so much as how he says it and, well, Johnny's pretty sure his _what the fuck_ face can be seen from outer space.

"What?" He pushes up onto his elbows and looks at Evan over his sunglasses.

"I was just -- because that time, and you --" The more he talks -- or at least, _tries_ \-- the worse Johnny's face gets. Is Evan really trying to have some sort of heart to heart, or whatever the Bro Code version of that is? Johnny's appalled and thrown and a million other things and he can't hide it, he just can't.

Evan stops talking. After a minute of awkward silence he says, "Uh, never mind," quietly and turns away. He coughs and shifts in his seat and Johnny feels bad for some fucked up reason. Probably because Evan looks like someone kicked his puppy. Johnny tries hard to ignore him, but he's sitting there like a weirdo sad sack, staring at nothing, and he _is_ the one who put up with all that shit when they were in town.

"They're fine, Evan," Johnny says, sighing so Evan knows he's not thrilled about this conversation. "They're good."

He can't remember if he's said that out loud before. Huh. He sits up and thinks about it for a minute. His back's to Evan when he says, "They're really good." He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a moron, but it doesn't really work.

When he looks over, Evan's nodding. He looks weirdly intense, focused, like he's analyzing this information or something. Probably grading himself on his advice-giving skills: A- for quality. B for execution. B- and a "needs work" for follow-up.

"Good," Evan says eventually. "That's good." There's a long pause and then, "Are you guys like, officially dating now? What are you going to do when camp ends?"

It's like having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Johnny's entire body goes rigid. What. The fuck.

"What time are the buses leaving?" he asks, careful to keep his voice even. "I should --" He cuts himself off. He doesn't have to explain anything to Evan. Anything.

**

He's still out-of-sorts by the time they finally get to the hotel. And then Mrs. H shows up with a score of room keys and the room assignments and Johnny's tension headache goes from bad to fucking migraine when he sees 306: J. Weir, E. Lysacek.

"Seriously, did you pay attention to _anything_ at the meeting?" Tanith says, rolling her eyes when Johnny finishes his rant. She hands another key to one of her campers.

"It was _really boring_," Johnny says as one of his campers steps forward, hand out. "Room 312. If you break anything, you have to ride in Mr. H's boat tomorrow."

"But there was a list," Tanith says. And then, "You didn't read it," just as Johnny says, "Well I didn't _read_ it."

Tanith shakes her head. "Yeah, well, I guess you'll just have to deal. Because we both know there will be no. Switching. Rooms." She says the last part in a horrible imitation of Mr. H. Johnny laughs in spite of himself.

"I knew this trip was going to suck," he says.

"Aren't you guys like, friends now? Shouldn't you be able to room with him without resorting to murder/suicide?"

Johnny just shakes his head and hands out another key.

**

That night, stuck in their fucking double room with nothing to do, Johnny doesn't talk to Evan. Evan doesn't try to talk to him, thank fucking god. He just lies there with his iPod on, ignoring all the rays of hate Johnny is hoping will literally start shooting out of his eyes any minute now.

It's better than spending the time alone with his thoughts.

**day forty-six**

Johnny's just getting out of the shower -- fucking whitewater rafting, his arms hurt from paddling and he can already tell he's going to have a fucking farmer's tan -- tugging on a pair of pants when someone starts knocking on the door. Evan probably forgot his key. Knowing him he like, dropped it in the river and didn't think to ask for a new one at the front desk.

"I should make you sleep in the fucking hallway," he's grumbling, mostly under his breath, as he yanks open the door. Only it's not Evan standing there, it's Stéphane. And his suitcase.

"... What are you doing here?" he asks, a little meanly. Stéphane's unphased; Johnny's been pissy ever since yesterday and they made him row a boat today. Pretty much everyone is expecting him to be cranky until they get back to camp tomorrow night.

"Evan traded with me," Stéphane says, beaming as he steps inside. "Isn't it wonderful?"

Johnny makes a face at the back of Stéphane's head. It seems a little -- okay, a lot suspicious. Since when is Evan wonderful? He's probably setting them up for something. He's probably planning to send Mr. H up to check on them in a few hours, pretending like Johnny locked him out of the room. God, he's such a douche.

"He said it was because he felt bad," Stéphane says, and of course, that's exactly what Evan would say. And Stéphane's exactly the one who would believe it. "I think because you are friends now?"

"We're not friends," Johnny says.

Stéphane pats his shoulder. "Then perhaps it is because he feels badly for me shooting him? Who is to say." He sits on the corner of Johnny's bed, bouncing a few times. "Let's not look the -- what is it? The pony in the face?"

"Gift horse in the mouth," Johnny says, trying not to laugh. Sometimes he thinks Stéphane says shit like that just to make him laugh. And it works every fucking time.

"Oui, c'est." Stéphane collapses backwards on the bed, arms over his head, his shirt riding up. Johnny's mouth goes a little dry. When he doesn't move, Stéphane pushes up onto his elbows and raises his eyebrows. Johnny glances over his shoulder to check that yes, the door's dead-bolted -- Evan clearly still has his key and Johnny doesn't trust him as far as he can throw him -- and then crawling over the bed, running his tongue over the tan, exposed skin on Stéphane's stomach.

Stéphane's laughter turns into a broken, needy sound; he gets a fistful of Johnny's hair and tugs, keeps pulling until Johnny stops mouthing at his navel and moves up his body. Stéphane's mouth is already open when he leans up to kiss Johnny. It's been not even two days since they last did this, but Stéphane kisses him like he's been starved for it. A part of Johnny wants to tell him to slow down, that they've got all night, but he doesn't. He lets Stéphane take the lead, lets Stéphane push his shirt off, hands seemingly everywhere, and then lets roll them over so he's astride Johnny's hips.

Johnny pulls the hem of Stéphane's shirt up as far as it will go. Stéphane sits up to take it off and ends up pausing, shirt balled up in his hands, just looking at Johnny. It gives him goosebumps. Stéphane tosses his shirt onto the other bed and leans back down and this time it's different, slower, calmer. Johnny can feel the stretch of his lips as he smiles, just before he licks into Johnny's mouth.

The blankets are twisted underneath Johnny's back and he has a moment of holy shit, this is a real bed, with real sheets. They haven't done something like this since... it's been a long time, is all. It doesn't feel weird this time, it just feels right, and that's equally overwhelming. Johnny turns his head, breathless. Stéphane kisses a path across his jaw, down his neck. Johnny closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe.

Stéphane's sucking a mark onto Johnny's skin when Johnny starts to say, "Are we... but he can't get it out. He coughs, tries again. "Would you -- would you say we're dating?"

Stéphane looks up at him. His eyes are dark and wide and he's a little breathless. Johnny can see the way his chest is heaving, can feel his breath coming in quick pants against his skin. Stéphane sits back, still straddling Johnny's lap. One of his hands is flat on Johnny's stomach, which he thinks is a good thing because Stéphane's not like, running for the hills, or so disturbed he can't touch him or something.

The silence stretches out for a lifetime. Johnny wants to say never mind, ignore me, pretend I didn't say anything at all, but the words get caught in his throat.

"No," Stéphane says finally, "I'm here only because first Brian slammed the door in my face."

Johnny frowns because he's being serious, and Stéphane must finally get that, must see the change in Johnny's expression, because he shifts a little, sweeps his thumb across the skin on Johnny's belly. One of Johnny's hands is resting on Stéphane's knee and Stéphane reaches down to cover it with his own.

"... Do you want for us to be dating?" he asks, almost hesitantly. Johnny turns his head to the side, towards the window. The curtains are open a sliver, but it's too dark out to see anything. His knees are digging into Johnny's sides, right under the curve of his ribs. Maybe that's why Johnny can't catch his breath.

God, the only reason he even brought it up is because stupid Evan is ruining his fucking life. He wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

Stéphane makes a quiet humming noise, barely audible over the A/C. He touches his fingertips to Johnny's chin lightly. Johnny looks back at him. The look on his face makes Johnny feel like his heart is falling into his stomach. It's all too much.

He covers his face with his hands. He has a whole thing planned -- he's thought about it a lot these past few days, what he would say. That he thinks he's pretty fucked up from his last relationship. That he's scared of fucking things up with Stéphane. That at first he was in it for the sex, but somewhere along the way that wasn't the only thing and he doesn't know when it changed, or how, and that kind of terrifies him -- but it all goes right out of his head. Instead he keeps his hands over his face, like an idiot, and says, "Yes. No. I don't know. I like how things are."

Stéphane's hands wrap around his wrists, gently pulling them away from his face. He's smiling faintly when Johnny looks at him. "I like them, too."

Johnny chews his lip. Stéphane's thumbs are skimming over the thin skin inside his wrists, broad, soothing sweeps. It's like he's waiting for something else, only Johnny doesn't know what.

"I --"

Stéphane bends, brushes his lips against Johnny's.

"I wouldn't have wanted you to go to Brian's room first," Johnny says, all in a rush as Stéphane sits back up. He closes his eyes tight; that was such a stupid thing to say. Stéphane chuckles. His sounds breathing all weird and shuddery. Johnny wonders if he's crying, or trying not to. Probably.

He squeezes Johnny's wrists reassuringly. "It is only your room," he says. "Toujours."

"Me, too," Johnny says. He looks up at Stéphane. "Well, your room."

Stéphane laughs and Johnny sits up, knocking Stéphane backwards slightly. He catches his waist, steadying him. Stéphane throws his arms around Johnny's neck for balance and then leaves them there, plays with the hair at the nape of his neck. He looks like he's waiting for Johnny to kiss him, so Johnny does, running his tongue along the crease of Stéphane's lips until he opens his mouth.

It feels like everything's moving in slow motion, the familiar taste of Stéphane's mouth, the languid slide of their tongues, Stéphane's hands in his hair and his weight in Johnny's lap.

"You know," Stéphane says, pulling back just far enough to talk. His eyes are still closed. "If you wanted to seduce me like this you could have bought flower petals --"

"Oh my god." Johnny rolls his eyes.

"-- Or chocolates, or candles --"

"I hate you."

"Just because it has been so long does not -- "

"Shut it." Johnny tries to cover Stéphane's mouth with his hand, but Stéphane twists and turns, grinning.

"-- does not mean the romance is dead."

"Oh my god," Johnny says loudly, "_you're_ the one who showed up here with your stupid --" and then Stéphane is kissing him again, laughing at the same time, pressing him backwards until he's lying down. Until Stéphane is on top of him, pinning his hands to the bed, rolling his hips and everything that was in slow motion before speeds up times four, sensory overload.

**

Johnny distantly thinks that this should be different somehow, that after everything tonight Stéphane fucking him in a hotel in the middle of nowhere shouldn't be the same as that time in the boathouse, as any of the other times. He thinks maybe there _should_ be candles and flowers and dramatic shit like that, that maybe without that it should feel like the waste of a perfectly good bed or something, but really it just feels so, so good.

He twists his hand into the sheets and rocks back, bites his lip to keep from making too much noise. The walls are thin. And he's gotten good at being quiet, anyway.

Stephane's hand in a bruising grip on his hip, his other hand on Johnny's dick, jerking him off, barely in sync with his thrusts at this point. He sinks his teeth into the curve of Johnny's shoulder and Johnny comes, shuddering, everything going blurry around the edges.

**day forty-seven**

Johnny wakes up cold in the middle of the night and has to wrestle the sheets back into his possession. He presses his nose into Stéphane's back and listens to the sound of his breathing, tries to match it with his own. He drifts back to sleep easily.

**

"Fuck, Stéphane." Johnny's breathing is ragged as he tries not to thrust up into the wet heat of Stéphane's mouth. Sunlight's just filtering through the curtains. Johnny's barely awake, his brain still fuzzy with sleep and sex, too much for this early in the morning.

They have an hour before they have to be at the buses. It's a lot of time, but not enough. Johnny kind of wishes they could miss it and stay here forever, in this crapass town with nothing but a couple motels and a seasonal whitewater rafting industry. Just the two of them.

Stéphane hums and Johnny groans, curling his fingers tighter into Stéphane's hair, pressing into his skull. Stéphane does it again and this time Johnny's hips jerk involuntarily. Stéphane's grip on Johnny's legs changes as he rakes his fingernails along the insides of Johnny's thighs. He doesn't do anything to keep Johnny from bucking up into his mouth, though, and that alone is enough to Johnny jerk up again.

He's taking his damn time, doing everything in his power to drive Johnny completely insane, until every point of Johnny's being is focused on Stéphane, on his hands and his mouth and the way his eyes are locked on Johnny's, like there's nowhere else in the entire world but right here, right now.

He hollows his cheeks one last time, sucking hard as he digs his nails into the juncture of Johnny's thighs, and that's it, Johnny knows he's gone. He tries to keep his eyes open.

"Stéph," he chokes out, right before he comes.

Stéphane's grinning when he flops next to Johnny, limbs splayed every which way. His hand lands on Johnny's stomach. He leaves it there.

"I never want summer to end," Johnny says when he feels like he can talk again. The words still come out a little slurred. He can feel Stéphane looking at him.

"Every summer must end," he says eventually, fingertips drawing random patterns on Johnny's stomach. "How else would we have l'automne?"

Johnny rolls onto his stomach, annoyed. That's not what he meant.

The mattress dips when Stéphane sits up; Johnny watches the shadows play against the boring beige hotel wall. Stéphane drapes himself over Johnny's back, pretty much just laying on him. He kisses Johnny's shoulder blade. His lips are still touching his skin when he quietly says something in French that Johnny doesn't totally catch. Johnny's not sure, but he thinks it means everything works out in the end.

He doesn't want to believe him -- everybody says shit like that, it's not like they're ever right -- but he does. Kind of.

**

Evan's staring at them while they all wait around outside the buses, doing last minute head counts. Technically all the other counselors are staring at them, or trying really badly to pretend that they're not, but Johnny's only annoyed by Evan.

"Quit being so creepy," he says stonily, aiming for quiet but failing. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jeremy elbow Meryl. Jesus, he takes it back. Sometimes he really hates the entire fucking world. He glares at them. To Evan he says, "I'm still mad at you, by the way."

Evan scratches his head and gapes like he can't fucking understand why Johnny would say such a thing. He has the memory of a fucking goldfish.

"No, he is not," Stéphane says, leaning over and butting right in. Johnny glares at him. Evan just looks confused. Stéphane loops an arm around Johnny's waist, hugging him close. And then he squeezes Johnny's hip where he knows full well there's a bruise, fingers digging in sharply until Johnny huffs a sigh, conceding. He twists out of Stéphane's grip and bends down to pick up his bag.

He doesn't look at Evan when he begrudgingly says, "Thanks," real quietly, right before he boards the bus.

**day fifty**

The end comes bearing down on them without any warning -- they get back from the trip and suddenly it's there, bam, the last week looming like they're staring down the barrel of a gun.

"It felt like we had so much longer," Yu-Na says sadly. She watches her popsicle melt, blue dripping down her arm. The Last Popsicle of the Summer, she'd called it, probably prematurely, but everything is The Last Whatever lately.

"It was the stupid trip," Johnny says. He feels a little guilty for calling it stupid when parts of it hadn't been at all, but. "It threw everything off-balance, perception-of-time-wise."

Yu-Na nods. She doesn't say anything about the trip throwing some other things off-balance, too, maybe. And that's why Johnny loves her.

"There's still a week left." Jeremy sits down with them. Johnny shrugs. A week's no time at all.

They're quiet. Johnny chews on his popsicle stick and listens to the muffled noises of campers rehearsing their Extravaganza numbers inside the field house. The music's faint but familiar.

"Is that... Telephone?" he asks, tilting his head.

"All-cabin finale," Jeremy says, laughing. "Meryl says it's the highlight."

"Clearly."

"Thanks for ruining the surprise, Jeremy," Yu-Na says. She grins at him. Even her teeth are blue.

Johnny closes his eyes and listens to the bassline of the music, the only part he can make out. His popsicle stick splinters in his mouth; Johnny curses under his breath. Last Bloody Lip of the Summer.

**day fifty-one**

Johnny's the one who steals the keys to the infirmary. Last Faking Sick to Distract the Nurse of the Summer. It's one of the stupider things they've done, but at this point, who cares? There's less than a week left. What are they going to do, get sent home?

"I'll put them back, she'll just think she forgot them," he tells Stéphane. "We're fucked if someone gets sick, though."

"I think you mean the opposite," Stéphane says. Johnny laughs, giddy, as Stéphane moves closer, until they're pressed together. He's still laughing when Stéphane kisses him; it's enough of a disadvantage that Stéphane gets him backed up against the door. Not that Johnny's complaining.

They haven't really discussed -- well, anything, since the trip. Granted, it hasn't been much time, but really all they're doing is making the most of whatever time they've got left. It's... it is what it is. He tries not to dwell on it too much.

Stéphane gets a leg in between both of Johnny's and presses up, just enough pressure to make Johnny gasp and rock down against him. He can feel Stéphane's dick against his hip, half-hard already. Stéphane's hand is splayed against his back, under his shirt, and when Johnny moves, Stéphane's hand moves with him, like a guide, only more insistent. He's trying to get Johnny to move faster, his fingers digging into Johnny's skin, urging him on.

He sucks at Johnny's pulse, uses his teeth and then his tongue, and Johnny's head thunks back against the wall. Already he's feeling a little lightheaded. He tugs at Stéphane's shirt, pushes it up until Stéphane gets the hint. He bites Johnny's neck once, teeth sharp, to show that he's annoyed before he moves back and lets Johnny push the shirt over his head.

Johnny takes advantage of the break to back Stéphane across the room, until he bumps into one of the tiny cots. Stéphane lets himself fall backwards, grabbing at Johnny's shirt so they both go down in a heap.

"Oh, look at the moon, it is almost full." Stéphane sighs. "So beautiful."

Johnny stops biting kisses across Stéphane's chest. "Do you really want to look at the fucking stars?" He knows he sounds pissy but Jesus, they didn't break in here for nothing.

Stéphane laughs and grabs Johnny's ass, pulling him down, grinding their dicks together -- it'd be better if they both weren't wearing pants, but -- "Oh thank god," Johnny says. He means it as a joke but it gets broken up somewhere in there, turns desperate and a little sad. He bites his lip and stays quiet after that, untrusting of his own voice.

It's Stéphane who works his hands between them so he can get both their pants undone. Johnny has to roll over so he can kick them off, but that gives Stéphane time to toss his own pants to the floor, too, and then he's grabbing at Johnny's shoulders, pulling him back on top. Johnny goes readily.

Sometimes he's amazed at how easily they fit together, their hips and chests and knees and noses, how effortless it can be. Stéphane thrusts up, his dick sliding against Johnny's, smearing precome against his abs. Johnny moans and Stéphane swallows the sound.

He's distracted, still trying to figure out what he wants tonight -- everything, is the stupid, unrealistic answer -- when Stéphane presses a finger into his ass. Johnny doesn't remember where he got the lube from, or when, but he doesn't fucking care.

"Fuck," he says. All the air goes out of his lungs and he arches back. He wants more already. Stéphane bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to make Johnny gasp, and then sweeps his tongue over it. He adds a second finger at the same time as he rocks his hips up Johnny has to concentrate on holding himself up, on breathing, on keeping some semblance of a rhythm when he feels like he's going to fly apart.

He comes too quickly anyway, his face smushed against Stéphane's neck as he shudders and gasps for breath.

**day fifty-three**

Usually Johnny doesn't hang around for the arts and crafts sessions, but Stéphane's canoeing or something stupid like that and everyone else fun is off doing whatever. Important things, he doesn't know. He cleans his cabin as best he can and then he gets antsy after sitting there for twenty minutes so he ends up at A&amp;C, hoping they're not hogging all the colored pencils and white construction paper.

"Hey, Johnny!" Sasha waves. Even from the doorway Johnny can see that her hands are sticky. "Papier-mâché, if you want to join."

He tries really hard not to make a face when he says no thanks. "I'll just..." he gestures to the only quiet table, tucked away in the corner. He only balks a little when he realizes Evan's already sitting there, determinedly drawing something. Of course. Of fucking course.

Johnny wonders how spastic it would look if he just walked out; probably not that bad, right? But Sasha's watching him carefully and it's not really worth it, dealing with her pestering him about why he left. If he left.

"Tic tac toe?" he asks when he gets close enough to see Evan's paper.

"What?" Evan sounds confused. When he looks up his face goes stony; he looks back to his paper immediately. "I like lines."

"Neat." Johnny sits across from him. He watches the top of Evan's bent head as he carefully, intensely draws more lines. For some reason, it's fucking frustrating. "Do you need a ruler or is it okay if they're not perfectly straight?"

Evan doesn't look up. "This is only the beginning," he says. Which doesn't answer the question, but his voice is all edges and whatever. Johnny didn't really care about the answer anyway.

Johnny takes a piece of paper and some pencils for himself -- Evan's only using one color, Johnny could take the whole box if he wanted but he's trying to be nice here. God knows why -- and tries to draw something. He's distracted, though, and ends up with swooping lines that never really take any shape.

In the background, Sasha tells the kids not to throw paper at each other. "Come on, guys," she says, in a tone that implies she's said the exact same thing every single day since the beginning of summer. Johnny doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to see gluey paper getting flicked around. He definitely doesn't want to draw attention to himself. Oh god, he hopes none of it accidentally flies this way.

He draws a few more lines aimlessly, switches colors and shades in between them. If anyone asks, he'll say it's like, line poetry. That he's painting his feelings. That it's an abstract rendering of the life and times of a whooping crane.

He spends more time creating the crane's back-story than anything else, really. It's sad -- he used lots of dark blues and greys and browns, so obviously it's sad. But then Sasha starts yelling at a couple of kids for daring each other to eat the paste and Johnny loses his train of thought and can't get it back.

He leans over to get a better look at what Evan's drawing -- the paper's a lot more filled up now, with actual drawings and not just like, a checkerboard pattern. But Evan moves his paper away and blocks the whole thing with his free arm.

"Jesus Christ," Johnny says. "I'm not going to copy your fucking drawing."

Evan looks up. He's stares at him, unblinking, long enough for Johnny to start to get itchy under his skin, along his hairline at the back of his neck.

"_What_?"

Evan finally fucking blinks, and then he says, "So you _are_ talking to me now." He's acting like it's a big fucking deal. Like they hadn't been fucking talking ten minutes ago. Like they're a couple of year 4 girls. Johnny's sick of this game already.

He rolls his eyes. "What crawled up your ass?"

Evan's eyes cut across the room, nervous even though Johnny was careful to keep his voice down. Johnny fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He stares out the window instead, not counting the seconds as they tick by silently while he waits for Evan to say something. Anything.

But Evan stays quiet and it's so damn -- ugh. Johnny doesn't get why Evan's the one who's acting all touchy and upset. Johnny's not the one who tried to play guidance counselor or whatever-the-fuck, he's not the one who got all up in the middle of things he didn't need to be in the middle of. Even if those things kind of helped. Sometimes. Ugh.

He turns back to Evan and makes sure he's looking when he rolls his eyes again, for effect. "I said thank you, didn't I?" he says exasperatedly.

It's Evan's turn to look out the window. "You didn't sound like you meant it, though."

Johnny glares at him for a full thirty seconds before he sees Evan's mouth twitch and realizes Evan's kind of kidding. Fucker. He goes back to drawing, ignoring the face Johnny's making at him.

"Next summer," Johnny threatens -- he assumes Evan's coming back next summer, because he always does. He's unkillable. Like a cockroach. And yeah, maybe Johnny would be... not sad if Evan didn't show up next year, but like, unsettled or something. He doesn't think camp would be the same without him, is all. But whatever, that's not the point -- "I swear to god, next summer I'm going to put like, snakes in your bed."

"Oh no, not that," Evan says, completely monotone. He probably thinks Johnny won't go near snakes. He's grossly underestimating Johnny's ability to hold a grudge, though. And his ability to sweet talk people into doing his dirty work for him.

"Try me."

Evan stops drawing and looks at Johnny, smirking. "You know there doesn't have to be a prank war, right? They'll send us on a camping trip no matter what."

"Ugh, don't remind me."

"It wasn't _that_ bad."

Johnny wishes he were wearing glasses just so he could take them off so he could show Evan how serious he's being when he says, "It was the worst night of my life."

"Yeah, okay," Evan scoffs. When Johnny glares he says, "We wandered around the woods for a little while and then ate hot dogs and got drunk, that cannot possibly be the single worst night of your entire life."

"Evan. We wandered around the woods _for hours_. I thought we'd never see civilization again. We could've _died_." But it sounds weak even to his ears. Not that that means he wants to do it again.

Either way, Evan rolls his eyes and goes back to drawing.

"Besides," Johnny continues, "maybe we won't both have the 4's next year. Whole mess: avoided."

"Maybe," Evan says eventually. His voice isn't quiet, it's the rest of the room that gets louder.

Johnny leans over to see whatever shape it is Evan's so intent on shading. His grid from earlier has transformed into some sort of motivational poster. "Oh my god, does that say _believe_?"

Evan nods. "I'm thinking of hanging it above my desk at home." Johnny nods because there's nothing he can really say to that. "What's yours?" Evan points his chin at Johnny's picture.

"Oh. It's about a crane. The bird," he adds, in case Evan thinks he's drawing construction work or something.

Evan stares at it for a minute, contemplating. Like it's an actual fucking piece of art. "I like it," he says. "It's heavy."

"Heavy," Johnny echoes, nodding. He feels like he's going to choke trying not to laugh.

**day fifty-five**

It's no secret that the last night at camp is typically everyone's favorite. Some people say they love the first bonfire or the first ten minutes of the Nerf war, when it's a free-for-all on the main lawn, the most, but the last night has the Extravaganza _and_ the Lutziyatah Ball going for it, so it's pretty much no contest.

The Extravaganza's hilarious for the sketches where the kids make fun of the counselors, one of the older one's always wearing the same bald cap and walking around on his knees as Mr. H, everyone making a mockery of the whole summer, like a PG version of SNL. Johnny cracks up at those parts and tries to stay awake for the more boring talent show pieces, the parts where each cabin has something they've been working on practically all summer.

"Five bucks Evan's does a motivational speech," he whispers to Charlie while they wait for Blade 4 to take the stage. He misses what Evan's cabin actually does, though, because Charlie takes it upon himself to write a motivational speech of his own, a greatest hits mash-up of every sports movie ever.

**

The Ball -- well, they call it a ball, but really it's like every middle school dance rolled into one, if middle school dances were outside and had fires and s'mores and people shooting each other with water guns. It's hilariously fun, though. Especially once Mr. H catches the Edge 5 boys and confiscates their guns and Johnny doesn't have to worry about getting shot at anymore.

"I hate this song," he yells to Yu-Na, halfway through the stupid Cha Cha Slide. She makes a face at him and they both slide to the left, laughing. In the row in front of them, Stéphane tosses his hair like he was born to dance.

Johnny's a little breathless when the song ends. The music slips into something slower, an 80's power ballad that sounds like every other 80's power ballad. Johnny's already a step towards leaving the dance floor when Stéphane stops cha-chaing with Shizuka and catches him. It's pretty much a tackle-hug, the way Stéphane plasters himself to Johnny to keep him from leaving.

"Hello," Johnny says, turning to loop his arms around Stéphane's neck. Stéphane smiles up at him and tugs Johnny closer, swaying slowly with the music. Johnny tells himself it's nothing, no big deal. It's the same way Stéphane's been dancing with everyone all night. Which is true -- the first slow dance of the night he'd waltzed Mrs. H around the floor like a pro, and every song after he's had a different partner to cling to. It's like he needs to be sure to hug everyone one million more times before camp ends.

They sway in a lazy circle, not quite in time with the music. Over Stéphane's shoulder, Johnny watches everyone else dance the same way, a sea of bodies. It'd be soothing if it didn't make him kind of sad.

**

Johnny's perched on Stéphane's lap, sharing a plate of cake while they watch everyone dance to some Miley Cyrus song about ice cream that even Stéphane couldn't learn. It doesn't make any sense and watching the campers do it so easily makes Johnny feel old.

"You are old," Stéphane says, when Johnny says as much.

"Quiet, you." Johnny pinches Stéphane's leg, laughing when he winces. Stéphane doesn't say anything else, though, just goes back to humming along with the music, bopping his head like a weirdo. Johnny picks at the cake.

He's scraping the icing off the top when he sees Mrs. H making his way towards them. She stops a few feet away, by the table where Tanith and Charlie are sitting. It's close enough that Johnny can hear her over the music and everything else.

"Is there a shortage of chairs I wasn't aware of?" she says to them. Her eyebrows are creeping towards her hairline.

"What? No," Charlie says, at the same time as Tanith says, "Sorry," and slides off Charlie's lap and into the empty seat next to them.

Mrs. H looks up, across the empty tables, and makes the same expectant face; Johnny quietly unwinds his arm from Stéphane's neck and shifts into his own seat. Stéphane compensates by scooting his chair closer, stretching his arm across the back of Johnny's, his hand settling on Johnny's arm. He rests his head on Johnny's shoulder; normally Johnny would shake him off, shrug his shoulder until Stéphane got annoyed and sat up, but he's tired all of a sudden. Too tired to care. It's comfortable and he likes the way Stéphane's shampoo smells, the way his temple fits right against the curve of Johnny's bones. So. Yeah.

"I have been thinking," Stéphane says quietly, like he's trying to make his words blend in with the music. Johnny's wary -- usually Stéphane thinking leads to conversations about what cats think about or how wonderful it would be if the standard currency were smiles or whatever. He hums noncommittally and keeps watching the dance floor, knots of campers in circles laughing and goofing around.

"That I might like to visit New Jersey some day," Stéphane continues, "Just for -- for fun, non?"

He keeps talking, hands waving in front of them both, but Johnny doesn't catch a single word of it because his brain is short-circuiting, like that color bar test pattern when the TV reception goes out for the emergency broadcasting system. This is a test. This is only a test. Johnny literally has no idea what to say -- he's happy, because duh, but at the same time. Well. Whatever, it's stupid to be annoyed, even if it does feel like postponing the inevitable. If things don't end now, they'll end when Stéphane goes back to Switzerland the second time, or in some random email on a Tuesday, or next year at camp, or whenever.

Johnny's brain is his own worst enemy.

He vaguely registers Stéphane shifting, that he's no longer leaning against his side. Johnny forces himself back to reality, where Stéphane is watching him with his big eyes, chewing on his lip and trying to look like he isn't anxiously waiting for Johnny to say something. Anything.

Johnny nods. "That'd be cool." He feels his face split into a grin as he says it, something like hope blooming warm behind his ribs. Stéphane smiles back.

"Yes, it would be," he says, and Johnny wishes they weren't sitting here smiling stupidly at each other but he can't help it.

He stops when someone kicks his ankle sharply. "_Ow_," he says, glaring up at Adam. It's been a long summer because Adam doesn't even flinch.

"I'm supposed to tell you flakes sell a hundred but I don't even know what that _means_." He flops into an empty chair to sulk. "I can't wait for next year. I'm so sick of being your guys' messenger."

Stéphane leans forward to pat his arm sympathetically. He ends up petting his head instead, drawn to his curls like a moth to a flame.

"Flakes sell a hundred?" Johnny repeats, confused. That doesn't even make sense.

Adam shrugs and leans into Stéphane's touch. ""Shizuka said Brian said Sasha said that flakes sell at a hundred, or whatever."

Johnny rolls his eyes. It's like a fucking game of telephone sometimes. "I'm going to go figure this out," he says, leaving them at the table.

He finds Meryl and Jeremy laughing in a corner, far away from the H's and any campers.

"Johnnyyyyy," Meryl says, waving as soon as she sees him. Even in the dark he can see that her cheeks are flushed. Jeremy's, too.

"Hi, guys," he says, trying not to laugh. "Having fun?"

They both nod, fast like bobble-heads. "Are you?" Jeremy asks, as Johnny leans against the wall next to him.

He looks over to where Stéphane's hanging all over Adam, making him laugh. Jeremy elbows him in the ribs and Johnny realizes he's staring.

"Hmm? Oh." Johnny laughs and looks back at Meryl. "Not as much as you guys, apparently."

They both start to laugh. "Ben has it now, so you could --" Meryl trails off, looking around. "I don't know where he went." She frowns at Jeremy, who shrugs. Johnny hasn't seen Ben in... a long time, actually, so god knows where he went.

"Oh! Here!" Meryl says finally. "We could just trade. I didn't drink a lot of it anyway." She holds out her cup and Johnny takes it automatically, swaps it for his plain punch.

He takes a sip and winces. It's strong. The second sip goes down easier, though.

"Oh, right," Johnny says, remembering why he came over here in the first place. "Adam came over and said something weird about flakes? At a hundred, or something? It didn't make any sense."

They both look confused.

"Have you guys seen Ben?" Yu-Na asks, sidling up to Meryl.

"He's MIA," Johnny says. "Do you know what flakes sell at a hundred means?"

"Flakes selling hundreds? What? No. Oh, thanks." She takes the cup Jeremy's offering her and takes a sip before handing it back. "Flakes sell --"

"Adam said Shizuka told him?"

"Oh!" Yu-Na claps her hands and then cracks up laughing. "Flakes -- no, no, _lake_. At midnight."

"Twelve hundred, ohhhh," Jeremy says, like a lightbulb's going off over his head.

Meryl frowns. "Isn't midnight zero?"

Jeremy points a finger at her like she has a point.

"Is that Ben?" Yu-Na goes up on her toes, trying to see. Meryl and Jeremy do the same and Johnny takes that as his cue.

Adam's gone when he gets back to the table; it's just Stéphane mouthing along to the song.

"I brought you a present." Johnny hands him the cup and sits down. The chairs are still pushed close together. "It was lake at twelve hundred, Adam's message," he relays, while Stéphane drinks.

Stéphane grins when he's finished, passes the cup back to Johnny to finish it off. It tastes like all the alcohol has settled in the bottom of the cup; Johnny shivers as it goes down. Stéphane trails his hand down Johnny's back, palm flat like he's trying to smooth the shivers away. It kind of works.

"Midnight, hmm?" Stéphane wraps his hand loosely around Johnny's wrist. Womanizer starts playing and Stéphane perks up, his hand tightening on Johnny's wrist. "Then there is still time to dance."

"No," Johnny says, shaking his head. "Absolutely not." But he lets Stéphane pull him back onto the dance floor anyway.

**day fifty-six**

Lying in bed, watching the clock, it feels like the first week all over again. Johnny waits until exactly twelve and then he grabs a towel to sit on and a sweatshirt and sneaks out as quietly as he can.

Ben's the one smuggling the alcohol this time, passing around a flask so they can top off the punch leftover from the dance. A lot of people are still missing -- Brian, Meryl, Stéphane, Charlie -- but they'll get there eventually. There's no sense in waiting to start the party.

There's no fire tonight. It's too risky, even though they're on the far side of the lake, well past the docks and the boathouse. But the moon's bright enough that it doesn't matter. Johnny leans against Tanith and drinks his punch and waits for everyone else to show up.

**

Brian's the first one with his clothes off, even though swimming wasn't his idea. Even though most of the others have kept their underwear on at least. But it's Brian, so the skinny-dipping is wholly unsurprising. Johnny doesn't think there's a person left on the planet who hasn't seen Brian naked.

"This is the stupidest idea ever," Johnny says, watching him dive into the lake, bare ass bright in the moonlight. He's drunk enough that it doesn't seem entirely stupid, though. He's just protesting for the sake of it. He figures it's classier if he protests at first.

"Oh, it'll be fun," Tanith says. She doesn't make any move to strip, though. Probably because Evan's being his drunkass self, hanging all over her right now. He has been for about twenty minutes, like a stretched out, annoying version of Stéphane.

"I'm going to miss you," he says, poking her cheek.

"You mentioned that," she says, swatting his hand away. Johnny's impressed that she doesn't smack him. "Like, seventeen times, actually."

"It's because it's true. I'm going to miss you every day," he says again, and his long arms reach past Tanith, stretching out towards Johnny. "And you, too."

Johnny ducks out of his reach. "Yeah, like a hole in the head," he says meanly, but he's laughing at the same time, so.

Evan just grins and reaches for him again, like a drunk Frankenstein.

"Hey, Ev, race you to the dock," Jeremy yells out. He's already running past them as he yells it, but Evan's not one to back down from a challenge, so he yells, "You're a CHEATER," as he takes off after him, trying to shed his clothes as he runs.

Johnny watches in horror as he trips over the sand, almost falling three separate times. "He's going to break his fucking neck. And I am not going to the hospital with him."

"Me neither," Tanith says, equally appalled.

"HEY, LOSERS, LET'S GOOOOO," Charlie yells from the water.

"Shhh," Johnny and Tanith say, instinctively. Everyone who's already in the lake just splashes him to shut him up.

**

They try to have a cannonball contest off the dock but it's too noisy so it gets cut short.

"I guess that means I'm the winner," Charlie says proudly.

"Sure you are," Meryl says patronizingly, kicking water at him and she floats past. And that's how the splash war starts. It doesn't take long for it to turn into a dunking contest, everyone fighting to stay above water while they grab at each other's ankles and shoulders and whatever limbs they can reach.

After a while, Johnny leans back and lets the water drag him away from it all. Someone swims up and slides their hand featherlight down Johnny's spine. For a second he thinks of all the terrifying sea creatures it could be.

"Jesus, you scared me," he says once he realizes it's only Stéphane. Stéphane responds by wrapping his arms and legs around Johnny and nosing at the back of his ear. His breath is warm, a sudden, sharp contrast to how cool the lake is. Stéphane clings to Johnny, licks the shell of his ear. Johnny has to fight to keep them both afloat.

"Who do you think will win?" Stéphane asks, unwinding himself from Johnny for the most part.

"Evan," Johnny says after a minute. His arms are like four times the size of everybody else's, he could turn this whole wake into a whirlpool if he wanted.

Stéphane hooks his chin over Johnny's shoulder. "I am thinking you underestimate Yu-Na."

They both watch as she swims up behind Charlie and dunks him, her hands flat on the top of his head. He resurfaces, sputtering, water flying everywhere as he shakes his head. He tries to take her out, only to be dunked again, this time by the combined effort of Meryl and Tanith. That's what ends up shifting the war to girls vs boys. As far as Johnny can tell, Brian's stuck being the referee.

"Should've kept your pants on, Joubert," someone -- Ben, Johnny thinks, but it's hard to tell when everyone's voices are muffled by splashing -- yells when he complains.

They watch quietly. Their legs keep bumping together, tangling and untangling as they tread water. Johnny shivers and Stéphane hugs him tighter, his hand sliding low along Johnny's waist. Johnny drops his head back onto Stéphane's shoulder, turning slightly so he can kiss his jaw. Stéphane stops dragging his thumb under the waistband of Johnny's briefs and turns his head so he can kiss him fully. The angle's off, though, and their noses and teeth keep colliding.

Stéphane pulls at Johnny's side until he swings around, gliding through the water so they're front to front. Stéphane's mouth is so hot, the complete opposite of everything else right now; Johnny can't get enough of it. Every so often Stéphane will kick his legs, tiny flutters, and his knee will just graze Johnny's dick and it's maddening. But despite how good it is, making out this way is fucking tiring -- Stéphane keeps forgetting he needs to tread to stay afloat, so they keep sinking and having to break apart so they can get back to the surface, both breathing hard from the effort of it all. If they were closer to the dock Johnny could pin Stéphane against it -- just the thought makes Johnny groan into Stéphane's mouth -- and they'd be fine, but out here there's nothing.

This time when they break apart, Johnny pushes Stéphane back, so they float apart a little. Johnny stares up at the sky, tired, trying to catch his breath. He can hear his blood rushing through his ears and crickets and nothing else. It takes him a minute to realize that's strange.

"Did they leave us out here?" he twists around, trying to see, but there's no one.

"It looks like." Stéphane starts swimming to shore without a word. Johnny waits for a minute, watches the smooth lines of his arms as the cut through the water, and then starts swimming, too.

Stéphane's flopped on Johnny's towel when he makes it to shore, sprawled out like has no intention of moving. And on one hand, good, because Johnny's not quite ready to go back to his cabin yet. But on the other: _hey_.

"Hey," he says, standing over Stéphane with his hands on his hips, making sure to drip all over him. It doesn't really do anything since he's still wet, too, but it's the principle of the matter.

Stéphane blinks up at him, feigning innocence.

"That was mine," Johnny whines.

"Oh?" Stéphane's got that look like he's fighting a smile but he rolls onto his feet anyway and waves his hands at Johnny. All yours.

"But it's all wet now." Johnny grimaces; he's pretty sure he can see the imprint of Stéphane's body on the towel, even in the dark.

"Désolé," Stéphane says, twining his arms around Johnny's neck. Johnny fleetingly thinks that he'll end up starved for touch once he's back home and no one's hanging on him 24/7. Hug withdrawal, or something. For rehab he'll have to get a puppy or a toddler or something else cuddly like that.

Stéphane's still murmuring in French, trying to be soothing. "D'accord?" He flattens his tongue and licks a stripe along Johnny's collarbone; it sends shivers down Johnny's spine. He ends up with even more goosebumps than when he was in the lake.

"D'accord?" he repeats, looking up at Johnny through his lashes.

"What? Sure, yeah, okay," Johnny says, even though he doesn't even know what he's saying yes to. Stéphane smiles against his skin and then licks a similar path up the other side of Johnny's chest. Johnny groans and tangles his hand in Stéphane's hair, pulling him up so they can kiss properly. Stéphane tastes like lake water and fruit punch and something else that Johnny knows he'll always relate with Stéphane, no matter what.

They fumble a little as they try to sink to the ground without stopping kissing, but then they're kneeling on the ground, the sand shifting underneath them, accommodating. Stéphane slides his hand up Johnny's chest, tweaking his nipple before twisting Johnny's necklace around his fingers. He leans back and uses the necklace to pull Johnny down with him.

The water makes things slippery as they move against each other. Stéphane's fingers dig into Johnny's shoulder when Johnny rolls his hips. "Wait, wait." Stéphane's nails are sharp, stinging, and then he's pushing Johnny off him

"What?" Johnny rolls to his feet, confused. "Are you --" Stéphane cuts him off with a quick peck and then he shucks his wet clothes. "Oh," Johnny says, because yeah, it _is_ kind of uncomfortable, now that he's thinking about it. Ugh. Ew. He takes them off and makes sure to lay them out somewhere where they won't get covered in sand, because that would be a true nightmare.

Stephane's already laying down again on his side, watching Johnny pad around. He looks pale in this light, even though Johnny knows he's not. Johnny stands next to the towel, waiting for him to roll over like before, but Stéphane doesn't. After a minute he reaches out and grasps Johnny's ankle, runs his thumb over the bone on the inside, sweeping strokes along his instep. It feels rough, scratchy, as he brushes the sand away.

And then he squeezes. "Are you waiting for an invitation?" he asks. "Because I am afraid we do not have that kind of time." His voice is light, joking, but still. They don't. Johnny smiles anyway.

"It would be nice to know I'm wanted," he says, as he drops to his knees. He stretches out next to Stéphane, lying so they're face to face. He half-expects Stéphane to say something cheesy, something about how he's always wanted, but Stéphane rolls his eyes instead. And then he leans over, pressing Johnny backwards.

The towel's not that big, so when Johnny rolls over he ends up with sand stuck all along one arm.

"Ugh, _Stéphane_, now I'm gritty," he starts. Stéphane rolls his eyes again, sighs this time. Johnny keeps complaining, even as Stéphane kisses him, the words getting all caught up between them. He bites Johnny's chin gently.

"Johnny?" he says, his breath tickling the underside of Johnny's jaw.

"Hmm?" Johnny pauses his monologue and hooks a leg over Stéphane's, trying to pull him closer.

"Shut up," Stéphane says, and then he kisses Johnny's jaw and the hollow of his throat and he keeps going lower, alternating between kissing and licking at the drops of water stubbornly clinging to his skin. Johnny stubbornly stays quiet.

At least, he tries, but pretty soon he's painfully aware Stéphane's breath on his dick, light and teasing.

"Don't --" he says, and then Stéphane's mouth is on him, cheeks hollowed before Johnny can even finish his sentence. "Jesus," he says, digging his heels into the ground to keep himself from thrusting up hard. He presses one hand on the back of Stéphane's head; the other stays twisted in the towel. He keeps catching handfuls of sand when he clenches his fist.

Stéphane flattens his tongue against the underside of Johnny's dick and then he does that thing he knows Johnny loves, that he knows will wrench a groan from Johnny's throat. It's like he's trying to make Johnny make noise. And it's fucking working. He trails his fingers up the inside of Johnny's thigh, all the way up to his balls; Johnny's stomach clenches.

"Fuck," he says. Stéphane groans in response and the sound sends sparks shooting all through Johnny, all the way to the inside of his eyelids. Stéphane does it again. His rhythm's slipping and Johnny shifts, twisting his upper body so he can see more than the top of Stéphane 's head. So he can see Stéphane jerking himself off. "Oh, fuck," he breathes out. Everything is shadowed in the night and it's still too much to take in.

His hand tightens in Stéphane's hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he arches up into Stéphane's mouth. Stéphane doesn't even try to hold his hips down, just sucks harder. Everything is so hot and wet and Johnny can't think clearly anymore, it's just Stéphane, over and over like a chant, and then he's coming, biting down on his knuckles to keep himself quiet.

It doesn't take Stéphane much longer. Johnny tries to pull him up but he won't go. He stays where he is, in the vee of Johnny's legs, mouthing at the crease where Johnny's hip turns into his thigh.

"Come on," Johnny says, his voice hoarse. He can tell by the sounds Stéphane's making that he's close. Stéphane shifts, slides his tongue down Johnny's leg. "Come on. Stéph --"

Stéphane bites Johnny's thigh when he comes, hard enough that Johnny jerks and curses.

**

"Don't worry about it," Johnny says, after Stéphane apologizes for the hundredth time. Stéphane traces the mark on Johnny's leg with one finger.

"Still," he says. They both know it'll be a nasty bruise.

"Seriously." Johnny pulls Stéphane's hand away, pins it to his own chest. "I've had worse." He tries to shrug, but it's hard under the weight of Stéphane. He settles for the tiniest of movements. It's not like he has that much energy anyway. He's exhausted, loose-limbed and completely comfortable, like the alcohol's getting it's second wind, returning with a vengeance, making him sleepy. Making everything fuzzy.

Johnny sighs. He tries not to think about how camp's pretty much over, but he can't help it. Parents are coming tomorrow -- today, whatever -- and Stéphane's flight's early the day after that. This is it. Stéphane is probably going to cry when he leaves and Johnny's going to end up feeling even worse for it.

He wishes he could freeze time.

"Jersey, huh?" he says eventually. Stéphane nods, his cheek skimming along Johnny's chest. Johnny smiles and tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of Stéphane's neck. "Don't let me fall asleep here," he says. They have to be up early to get everyone moved out. There's still a lot he has left to do.

"Alright," Stéphane says sleepily. Johnny drifts off to Stéphane's fingertips drumming a random beat against his collarbone.

**day fifty-seven**

Stéphane definitely cries. Johnny can see him sobbing and waving through the back window of the van that's driving him and the others with early flights to the airport. Shizuka's petting his hair. Usually it's kind of funny when Stéph cries, but right now Johnny just feels like someone's hitting him in the gut with a nine-iron.

"Cheer up," Evan says, waving his half-eating popsicle at Johnny. "There's only like, 309 days 'til next year!"

"I hope you choke on that," Johnny says, glaring. But he does feel a little better.

"Hey, guys!" Sasha yells from the field house doorway, "You gotta help us get this banner down. We can't reach."

"Okay," Evan yells back, jogging over. He gets two feet and then pauses, turns back to Johnny. "You coming?"

Johnny takes a deep breath and then another. "Yeah. Be right there."

Evan nods and disappears into the field house.

Johnny shades his eyes and looks into the distance. He keeps watching until he can't see the van at all, until all the dust has settled and everything is still.


End file.
